poem for a loud room

poem for a loud room; red light and blue light and the mechanical fizz of electric guitar; the songs I don’t know and will never hear again. the lead singer leans into a crowd which reaches towards him like the sun; on the floor above us the adults were drinking cocktails which I could only afford if I starved for the week; the men were tall and wore button down shirts with their jeans; the women had straight, short cut hair and animal print coats, they watched us slightly as we turned from the bar and through the cold crowds. downstairs, with the cobwebs and the cheap lighting, the music throws and catches us, we are young and alive and stupid, we touch the hands of the rock stars as they walk by like something here could heal us, stick to the floors and the tables from our shoes and then our elbows; faces turned to the light–