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.