Never Gained a Medal

It was never relevant that the evening
commenced early, or your pockets
were empty, or that the shirts we shared
like rationed meals were a slightly
bad fit, or that the wares you peddled
were somewhat short on substance.

You, still dominated with a shroud
of fog which managed to shatter clarity
as you almost cracked the walls
you leant upon, which almost gave way
due to torturous boredom;
the crushing of your back their only deterrent.

And your trainers and sweatshirts,
always wider than mine, a thunderous
clash, your legs and torso like a beacon,
always capable of attracting the wrong
type of salvation, your numerous scars
mapped out this legacy.

And as you slowing slipped out
of the confines of the fencing that
surrounded our circle, your fists
now cracked and withered,
the jokes and rounds become
less and less, as you finally find comfort
in the pockmarked blanket of our past.