The ticket-taker

Every night I stand behind invisible
glass. I check stubs like a breathing
barcode scanner. I watch the window
echo the beat, but just this once I’d like
to see the show.

I fall in love with every empty-headed
hipster douche winking as he walks
past. Something about tight pants
and the waxed stache and a promise
that I’d be miserable with you.

Irony is for the parents of hopped-up
kids that thought a college degree
guarantees a real job. Instead they spend
allowances on moustache wax and
tickets to concerts played by

same-brained mirrors claiming diversity
is a different reference on a T-shirt.

PAD Challenge 6: Write from another’s perspective


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