Wallflowers Bloom In Basement Stairwells

I used to be a wallflower at the punk show. 

Standing in back like those cool people in that Jawbreaker lyric or Peter Parker, replete in sweater vest

a tour song well defined.

I watched everyone else participate, slunk in the corner like a ragdoll 

in required black hoodie, shock of auburn hair, drooped over crooked glasses.

'90s indie fashion or a Weezer video extra, the early days of emo. 

A backpack possibly slung over my shoulder, and a lack of beer in my hand,

made me stand out, an awkward clown, never a joiner.

Even though I loved the volume of the music, the warmth of the room,

distinguished from the blustery, wintery outside, I found it hard to join. 

These states never get warm. The band never breaks a string.

Once I finally joined and met the people in the room, I became a figure

in the scene, with my own nickname and relevance. Seldom a band member,

I was the eternal commenter, the guy who could talk records, a legend in my hometown.

Like that irredeemable cliche, the scene helped me belong, it gave me more of a purpose.