Saturday night,
Brighton station, padlocked,
last train to London
already gone.
Seven young men,
drunk, stranded.

A lad from another group
just down the road
strides towards them.
“You startin somethin, are ya?”

One of them, shirtless,
moves towards this aggressor.
“Yeah, go on then.”
A can flies
beer sprays over the pavement,
a speck lands on me.
The brawl between both sides
sprawls over the pavement.

But this is not serious violence.
The blows thrown lack full force
as if none of them want to commit
to a knock-out punch,
and its consequences.

This masculine ritual
is like a ballet,
releasing pent-up energy
tinged with joy.
Adrenaline surges
through their young bodies’
sinews.

Two or three women
circle the males’
maelstrom.
“Stoooppppppp iiiiit,”
they shriek, to no avail.
I’m sure they know
that nothing will stop
the boys in their flow.

I move to the taxi rank
as they continue their dance
together,
into the night.