Trickling hipsters like water find the lowest points
in general admission, acting capillarily and aloof
in clumps of two or more, their tattooed wrists locked,
their glistening 4 gauge earrings an unscheduled
second stage light show centipeding the crowd,
their thirty dollar tee shirts tight across their chests,
their median age just this side of driving, lower
and lower toward the stage where a seven piece,
half in guitars and drums, the other half in suits,
trumpet, banjo and violin, all play effortlessly,
and joylessly, too, because it didn’t feel like work
when it was hard to make a living, and it’s hard
to make eye contact with a thousand screaming fans
when an eight inch thousand watt Fresnel’s aimed
straight at your now famous face, I’ll bet.