Every afternoon on their way back
from school, they get a ball
and start booting it
across the park opposite
my house,

****** crimson ties slack around their necks,
black uniform untucked.
Kim comes at half three,
asks if I’m doing ‘all right’?
Not bad.

An episode of Minder’s on the box,
teeth popping globes of green
grapes bought when in town.
Then, an electrocution,
a name.

Ted. His features start to swim in my head.
Next week marks fifteen years.
He used to play once.
Striker. He’d score a belter.
I’d cry.