The first time you heard about it, the story was
he’d done it in an abandoned shack somewhere;
then later, in a garage. You saw the logic
in that. You saw the load-bearing possibilities
in its wooden beams. There was a movement
of things you could neither hold onto nor
let go of. Several years had passed in any case,
and your paths – never running exactly in parallel –
had diverged even beyond your imagination.
Yet at least they had once crossed, and you
find you instinctively remember him the other way.
His gloved fists, pendulums at the end of
cigarette-coloured arms, lie steady beside his
red trunks. The twin wells of his nostrils seethe,
dark curls bobbing above the bridge of his nose
as he enters the ring, with its examining lights,
looking like he has a fighting chance for once.
Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland, and writes poetry, short stories and non-fiction. His poetry has appeared in print and online publications in the UK, recently featuring in Scrittura, Clear Poetry, and Alliterati