The Company of Men

June 10 2012

They sat, drinking.

A small circular table,

bottles sweating

wet round rings,

the smell of stale beer.

Foam, clinging to the glass,

dregs

of warm flat liquid.

They don’t talk about much

men with men.

Not money, wives, or kids

sharing, confession, gossip,

metaphysics

the state of the world.

Sports, mostly

and women, of course,

waitresses

as young as their lovely daughters.

And tired jokes

full of “fuck” and “shit”.

The thing is

there is no need to talk

there are no awkward silences.

The company of men is enough,

lads, buddies, chums

mutely accepting each other

as they have done for years.

Comforted

by simply being present.

Heavy bodies slumped

on suspect chairs,

tipped back creaking.

Another round

as he eyes her bum

approvingly.

She wipes the sticky tabletop

reaches across for the tip.

Deftly fending off a hand

as if she was actually flattered.

This poem began with Roddy Doyle’s well known short story Bullfighting. I intended it as a celebration of male friendship. Which is very much in the spirit of the story. Doyle writes with a sweet almost sentimental fondness for his characters. He does not judge them.

Unlike women, most men don’t need talk or confession or the sharing of problems to bond:  the stoic silence of men. I wanted to salute that wonderful quality of old comfortable friendships in which there are no awkward silences.

But I think, despite my intentions, the poem becomes a bit of a lament about middle age. There is a kind of impotence and sad futility here. They could do better than this.