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At the Metal Concert
They don t-shirts emblazoned
with cold hard skulls and the bands
they worship, never of the headliner though,
since that would be a newbie move.
They take pride in obscurity (like a reader of poetry)
and would not be caught not knowing who is playing.
That’s why they sulk at the openers, even if—
deep in their dark souls—they enjoy
the rattling lungs and scrunched foreheads.
Despite what elders say,
they are a decisive bunch. They’ve heard it all before.
They converse, if at all, about everything sucks.
How the list of what rocks is slim,
but includes the headliner (older albums only),
energy drinks, cigarettes, dying potted plants,
and cats, because all those things
are like the lights that dim
that make their tight lips loosen.
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