Impostor

They can see it

in the way I walk,

in the way I wear my tie.

They can tell

by the way I talk to the waiter,

in that I talk to the waiter at all.

The clothes don’t fool them.

I’m not one of them.

I stay my course

and get through my day

anyway,

go through the motions

and collect my pay.

They have no way to know

that I’m a secret poetry agent,

a reluctant punk rock dervish

and pied piper

to the righteous underground,

that I enlighten darkly

with a cold fist of truth

through scribbled secret lines

scratched out on the way

to fancy lunches.