Bookends. Poem by John C. Smith

We were never close.
Never friends.
But here we are
sitting like bookends
at either end
of an old park bench.
Silently.

You with a stick.
Me with a cane.
As in childhood
never the same.
We could never
see things that way.

Whatever we did
one of us was to blame.
With the best of
intentions
we'd set out a game,
but along the way
as was usually the case;
we'd fall out.

One of us would pay,
dearly.
So we decided not to play.
And with that decision
we grew apart.
So over the years
we've 'played'
less and less.

Until today
we sit like this.
Brothers in blood
but never friends.
Sitting on the bench.
Just like
bookends.