Sixteen

(criticism please. it needs some work)

Young, high as shit,
gaping at Iggy in an extinct club.
Some Weird Sin or some other song
slips through my ears,
suffocates my brain.
It slinks over me—
the undulating waves of
an ocean of sweat and cigarette butts.
High tide reaches my waist
and reveals the jetty
of Neptune’s arm.
It stretches back to a bland landscape:
gray sweatshirt tucked into
gray sweatpants to match his
gray comb over, adorned by a
gray moustache, as if he
tried to pull a bowtie over his head.
I stammer back onto dry land
and soak in the over the hill
man making a move for my crotch.
He looks as stunned as me before sliding
back into the crowd
with the other drops of water.