Backstage with B

I am backstage with B,
keeping it cooler
than I thought
while I was on my way here,
to his show; 
I was on the list.
That helped.
Me, feeling cool. 

Bunch of dudes—
photographers, grips, etc—
are smoking weed,
and while I don't know
where to put my hands
I still keep my composure. 

I've been in this situation before,
but it never gets old
or less exciting,
and I try to take it all in,
the behind-the-scenes atmosphere,
without looking like a looney tune. 

B introduces me to people,
I give them daps,
and they smile back,
and I feel important;
to one guy he says I am a writer.
I don't know why I am surprised by this.
I am a writer. 

It's jarring when hipster black dudes
say the N-word;
it's even wilder when they say it to me,
especially while handing me a joint,
along with a smile
and more daps. 

Before B takes the stage,
he gives me daps,
says thanks for coming,
and while I belong,
I don't belong,
or maybe I belong.
Shit, why can't I just be present?
It's never enough in my head. 

Then the music starts,
and for a split second
I watch the crowd
and then I feel it in my marrow.
That's when I stop thinking.

Between the set and the encore,
B comes back and crushes
a Liquid Death water,
gives everyone daps—
the band and the strangers in the room,
and even me—
and the validation
is indescribable.