Men On A Bench Poem by C Richard Miles

Two seated drunkards by Exmouth market mock-fight
Hands interlocked, wrestling, perhaps in anger but
Perhaps some deeper link connects the shabby pair
Something more than the need for drink, for sure.
They have that hungry look that only years of cheap
Lager can supply, each a sackless feckless chap:
One younger, shaven headed, new to this sort of life
But still street-savvy, learning vagrant-lore on the hoof;
The other, older, white haired, balding, with a face
That looks as though it’s lived a hundred lifetimes, fast
Spinning into senility as health is wrecked by stealth.
They continue to spar, hands still entwined, both
Reeling in slow-motion choreography, a dance
To which they only know the steps in sequence.
They may fight now but, in the morning, somewhere
Tucked away around a corner on a doorstep, will war
Have been forgotten, as they sleep unheeding the world
In grimy sleeping bags on tattered damp cardboard?
And will their hands still intertwine as if they have
A bond that somewhere else we might call love?