The Courtesy of the Young

The floorboards are humming a low, muddy C

that travels up through the soles of my boots

and settles in my knees like a dull ache.

The kid in the denim vest hit my shoulder

and turned with a look of genuine horror,

saying "Sorry, sorry," with a soft, careful tone

he might use for a dog that’s gone blind.

I am holding a plastic cup of tap water,

the condensation slicking my palm,

watching the sweat on his forehead catch the light.

I am the shoreline where the tide doesn't reach,

a piece of driftwood they’re trying not to trip over

while the drums kick a hole in the basement air.