Is there a they?
Or is they us?
On the same old day,
riding a different bus?
Tilting heads at the same places.
Different route, same blank faces.
Electrified through the same lines.
Picking fruit amid the same mines.
Is there a them
amid your dreams
deep in the REM
the field of screams?
No. There you are each shadow monster.
The bright and the dark, indivisibly you.
You may wish to be not the mobster,
but you can’t ever cleave yourself in two.
Maybe “they” are an illusion.
A genetic glitch now passe.
A wanton act of collusion
to create an invisible they.
By B Gourley in People, poem, Poetry on October 15, 2016.
