Friend, Citizen, Stranger Meet Up At The Disco Poem by Raj Dronamraju

Martyrs in the tool shed and martyrs in the basement
Martyrs in the kitchen and martyrs on the front porch
Martyrs for people they actually know

On behalf of talked over common sense
The one you like
The one you don't know but are forced to be with
And the one you have never seen before
Come across like three wise men bearing no gifts, nothing
Save hangdog expressions and empty boxes full of pessimism

What a misbegotten donnybrook
That could not fly of its own accord
That takes matters into its own hands
Laying their hands upon the stovepipe

But you won't be able to keep your hands warm until you get into the disco
And the martyrs will meet in the disco
In a warehouse of impersonality, they'll throttle good times
They'll get to know more about their common plight
But will not be comrades-only three of a kind under sickly lights

Stamped on the back of their hands
Is the admission that they paid to feel unwanted
This is something they would never share with each other
Let others assume there is a nervous camaraderie there