Sat at that bench,
Our throne of wood,
The leering aristocracy,
Across the river,
In their palace,
On thrones of green leather.
We should never have made it there,
But we did, individually,
And converged, at that time,
To share that instance,
Devised by fate,
Which was predetermined to happen,
And was always going to be
So subtly remarkable.
The two of us,
Sat at our bench,
Not belonging, together.
© Copyright 2016 BenBowker. All rights reserved.
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