Forever Scratches
The ball, a panel loose and flapping,
shot above my head and barged into a hedge,
a hole where leaves had been.
As I jogged from the hoodies on the grass, you yelled,
‘Run, then!’ and guffawed. Sharp, nasty
twigs etched red marks into my legs
as I prodded for the ball. I swore at each of them.
On my way back, the ball under my arm,
you leaned towards the other, hand to his ear
covering your mouth, saying
my shirts were baggy, shorts too tight;
I’d asked out Beth, she’d cringed and laughed;
my parents’ car, tape on the wing mirror.
Widening grins.
You saw me staring—smiles, thumbs up:
‘We’d thought we’d lost you, bud.’
The sun fell, darkening the sky.
We walked across the field, you two ambling ahead—
heads high, backs straight, shoulders wide—
while the breeze dried my sweat,
stung the cuts on my legs.
© Robert Cutillo
Robert Cutillo is a writer from Derby, UK, who explores dysfunctional relationships, family, childhood, loss, grief, loneliness, bullying, power and work life. His short story ‘Blacksticks blue’ was published at Literally Stories, and his poem ‘A seamstress working from home in the 90s’ at Ink Pantry.
The Loch Raven Review 