It’s as if it’s their first time.
Coupled in the house lights,
centre stage, stood in view of all,
dwarfed by the sweating Belgian beer
advertised behind, the rise of music
drowning their hushed voices further.
Which row is theirs? Which seats?
They look to the screen, to their tickets,
but can’t place themselves amongst
the young, their phone-lit faces,
who cross their feet on the seats
in front and give them no notice.
There’s tender nervousness, caution.
She takes a step to the row before
and he stops her, confused, unsure.
Suddenly they’re the feature: a lost pair,
timidly holding their salted popcorn,
their melting milk chocolates,
who’ve nowhere to sit,
who can’t find their place
amid the sea of certainty
of kids, of teens, of adolescence.
They know all of life –
– and at the same time, none of it.