Six Men
Six men,
Half a dozen
But no less complete,
Crowded on a table in a cafe.
Three one side, three opposite,
Ordered as eggs
And just as happily cramped.
Three one side, three opposite,
No box with a lid
To keep the order
Of this manly batch
Of a somewhat erstwhile ovarian despatch.
Three one side, three opposite,
But the front to front is synergy,
Nothing adversarial...
Perhaps.
Nothing to keep the pecking order,
Just a complex mess
Of balances and checks,
The social code
Far, far more complex
Than the nests of wires they manipulate,
Doing the daily job.
They monitor each others’ twitch, that smile,
That stab of a fork to steal a chip.
There’s Laughing Boy,
Will he dare to speak,
Or just placate, allow the plunder?
The Fat Man wins;
He always does, I’ll bet.
Now it’s out to the van,
To pile in the back,
To drive to...
Wherever.
But I’m still here,
And there’s another three
Just arrived.