Three Hipsters

Three hipsters sit on a street corner in New Orleans. They dirty their wash jeans in the grime, writing poems for a dime. They sneak a toke with a prostitute nearby, afterward calling him by name. They are cross with typewriters between their legs. The intoxicated barfly citizens stagger by and throw money at them for a different thrill, occasionally handing them cigarettes. The hipsters squint through their clear large-lensed glasses and craft the same poems, over and over again, giving the drunks something to challenge the senses. The hipsters’ fingers strike the keys with the extra strength that heavy vintage rings can provide. The streetlight blinds the drunks but fuels the avant-garde warriors. One holds a pipe in his lips, the smoke stinging his eyes but pumping his ego. The hot night allows sweat drip from beneath their wool caps, suffocating their heads in the Louisiana heat. After a long night of selling poems, one sniffs. It’s time to head to Snake n Jakes for a PBR.

first photo from WeHeartIt.

(c) Ada Vaskys

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