I can feel them watching.
“Magnets on the dance floor.”
We are a storm.
Wearing plaid and pleather.
He wears glasses and a rainbow bowtie.
They don’t know what to call us.
So they have to call us something.
The only word our generation seems to know.
I slept through breakfast.
I slept through lunch.
I slept through a walk to pick up his freshly developed film.
Want to meet at that secret chinesse place in the basement?
I am late like usual.
“Hipsters” I hear them say.
I hear them whisper, and yell and groan.