Purple People Poem by John W. McEwers

They walk among us, you or me,
they take each other down,
a notch or two.
They wear button-down shirts and plain ties.
They talk about casual Fridays as if that makes things cooler.
They work as parking attendants,
waiting impatiently to give out tickets when the meter runs out.
They work with numbers
they write reports for businesses
they eat at Burger King or McDonald's or Subway.
They are everywhere.
They wear our skin.
And they don't even know
that they
are monsters.