Like plastic people
drenched in no-stick spray,
they pop up and check in
every now and then,
their stiff heads
sticking up
above the fray,
then slowly sink
into the comfort
of their pretend perfect world
with apparent disregard
for the rotten one
who has upset
the apple cart.

Try to hug them
too close or too long
and you break
into a thousand tiny pieces,
and, though you are
their own, they’ll never notice
that anything’s wrong
at all, because it has to be
all right with you
for them to be okay.
And so you live
with the other bad apples
as they polish the picture
of you, shiny and new.