Dudes think it’s just fine
to crank the volume on their conference call
the tinny drone of [insert tour manager here]’s voice
like an disembodied radio DJ or an interview
that needed to be cut off ten minutes ago.
But it’s been 45 minutes.
Loud proud boasting about touring “across the pond”
and that “people in Spain still buy CDs”
while the old lady with her book
darts dirty looks and swears in whispers.
Even the homeless guy moves away;
a semicircle of empty tables,
a desert of discontentment.
But none of us dare to cross it. To say,
Hey douchebags, the rest of us don’t care
about your album, your sycophantic pandering
to that tinny voice that panders back. No,
we sit here and silently seethe,
wondering what does it take to ask
other humans to be a little more human.