The shuffle of feet
to an out of time
drum beat. Sweat
and stink, shoulder
to shoulder

is what they'll remember
when they pay seven
bucks for a wrist
band stuck to arm
hair, and a marker stain
on the back of the hand
like a black badge.

Tomorrow no one will
remember how guitar fuzz
cut like a razor or the bass
burst in their chests,

because when the last note
decays in the back of the bar,
all the kids will have is a ring
in their ears, and a scratch
in the throat from a sound
dug deep into elbow bruise
and beer can crush.

Tomorrow they will hear it,
when paper tears from wrist,
when ink is washed from hands,
when feedback is faded
and speaker hiss cut.