Two Old Men
They stood holding on to each other
As in combat, two old men,
Equally tall, equally thin,
Brothers perhaps, with the same nose,
The same receding chin,
Though one seemed a little older
Than the other, with graying hair,
A deep frown, and a boldness
In his stance and in his look
That was quite his own.
He held the other’s neck in the crook
Of his arm and would not let go.
The other had his fist tucked
Into the stomach of his foe,
As if he had intended to hit
Him there, hard, but held back
At the last moment. A split
had sundered them, there on the fine
Parquet floor, while behind, at a table,
People talked and drank wine.
There was movement, laughter.
He struggled to break free.
What he wanted was what comes after
The anger and the tears.