Vicarious

I stand with the crowd, peering through an opaque looking glass.
My presence is acknowledged, albeit with a passing glance.
Though I enjoy the festivities, I wish they’d give me a chance.

I hear their stories and try to share a few of my own.
My tales are quickly scattered to the wind, their fate left unknown.
I enjoy what the others have to say though, so I won’t be crass.

I anxiously await my choosing as we assemble for a game.
My mind knows it’s pointless, as I am always last to be picked.
Fortunately, my happiness while playing overcomes this inner conflict.

I understand my role as just another cog in their machine.
My heart weighs heavy, and I grit my teeth so as not to make a scene.
I live vicariously through them; I am a friend with no name.

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