sitting in a sea of robots
all facing the same way
vacuuming through bags and bags
of morbidly buttered popcorn
looks of scorn
as i squeeze by to my seat
all of them critics
opinionated inappropriately
entirely unnecessary
crunching and rustling until
the credits roll
paying too too much
for so so little
the smell of age and ignorance
to my left
the energy of youths inattentiveness
to my right
i find myself in the middle
curtains