Amid the glitz and blinking lights of the theater district,
where even the obligatory McDonald’s was dolled up
with flash and pizzazz, a showy two stories with a Vegas marquee.

we strode into the buzzing, lavishly appointed lobby
in creased jeans and wrinkled T-shirts,
and loaded up on draft latte cans, single-origin tea, and IPAs.

We ascended to the balcony seats I once thought were
the sacred preserve of aristocrats, but which turned out
to be the cheapest seats in the house if the view was obstructed.

True, our grandparents dressed up for such occasions.
But their contemporaries were the indecorous ones
who failed to turn their phones off after multiple warnings.

The play wasn't a musical,
but it was serenaded with factory-issue ringtones
that chirped and chirped over the playwright's dreamscape.