And you play the same game
the orphan game
the ragged winter game
that says, I am alone
(hungry: I know you want me
to play it also)
the game of the waif who stands
at every picture window,
shivering, pinch nose pressed
against the glass, the snow
cllecting on his neck,
watching the happy families
(a game of envy)
Yet he despises them: they are so
Victorian Christmas-card:
[...]
ribboned suburban laughter
and they have their own forms
of parlour
games: father and mother
playing father and mother

He's glad
to be left
out by himself
in the cold
(hugging himself).

When I tell you this,
you say (with a smile fake
as a tinsel icicle):
You do it too.
Which in some ways
is a lie, but also I suppose
is right, as usual:
although I tend to pose
in other seasons
outside other windows.

Margaret Atwood - "The Circle Game"