Birds Of A Feather

I’ve
stooped to a level low enough to high-five Satan
just to feel like apart of that group that
gets invited to everything and
always has that extra someone to be there
in all their shallow ways,
a holographic shoulder to cry on;
and we’d sit,
sipping on our twelve dollar caffeinated drinks,
covering our spying eyes with dark plastic
molded by the nimble fingers of five cent
workers,

in our
silk pleated tanks and gold-plated jeans,
shimmering in the eyes of
the homeless man
laying bare-chested on the concrete miracle,
stained with the mishaps
and accidents of unfortunate
victims of the system

and
I’ll blend in
like sheep skin,
herded by the masses
and surrounded by the nobodies
who can’t seem to save themselves
from the last someone
who wanted to be just like them.