Sequestered

When browsing the aisles of containment
bedecked in my lower class raiment
I see them smile crisply clean
like they just oozed out of a magazine;
she cuts my hair if I need a trim
and each time more white appears
to feel the bite of mechanical shears
while I wonder how she stays so slim
and almost painfully prim.

Outside a fake owl holds virtue at bay
as pigeons keep flocking to flutter away
the trinkets they’ve earned
the marrow they’ve spurned—
it truly is pathetic
to gauge who’s more synthetic
the jury or the courtroom that’s adjourned.