I follow a group of kids upstairs
to smoke some weed. One swings round
and asks: why are you following us?
Another time I show up at a party
and one of the football guys looks down at me
then sneers: what are you doing here?
I’m told that one of these kids is now
a history teacher, the other quite high up at Tesco.
Neither would remember my face or name
yet the sting of both incidents sits
like a flame under every interaction
I’ve undertaken since then
whilst somewhere, in another notepad,
some kid whose name and face I don’t remember
sits writing of me wronging them.
Shame. It builds nests between us.
Reaches unseen into our histories.
Tries with its talons to tear at our future.
