Brothers

You know the sort: they borrow each other’s t-shirts,

wear each other’s sweat under their armpits.

In the pub, you swear you hear one’s voice and turn

to find the other chatting up your girl,

or else you catch one, curling up his lip,

as if he’s trying on his brother’s smile,

or you go to the bar and they both show up.

One has a knackered Transit, the other jump leads.

They’ve one gym membership and their own bodies,

tell the punch lines to each other’s jokes

and if you’re fool enough to bother one,

you’ll find yourself outside with both of them.

You know the sort: the elder has a child

who’s got her mother’s mouth, her uncle’s eyes.