The Youngest

I looked around and saw it all at once:

the gray hair, the wedding rings that announce

they've been married longer than I've been alive,

the way they sit with the kind of alive

authority that comes from knowing

you're not going anywhere, from growing

old in the same place, the same room.

Their voices have weight. The room

is theirs already before the meeting starts.

Their decisions are made. The parts

I'm supposed to play are decided.

I'm the one taking notes. I'm the one guided

by their agenda, their expertise, their time.

The woman across the table has a line

between her eyebrows like it's been there

for thirty years. The man doesn't care

to check his phone. He already knows

how to sit still. He already knows

what everyone will say.

I realize I'm the one who will stay

late to understand what they decided.

I'm the one still being guided

by people who forgot what it felt like

to be young enough to strike

out, to argue, to not know.

Today I'm just writing down what they know.