Back Roads

the ways we go

will jumble and make no sense

and we’ll yearn

for smooth boulevards

to preen the dream engines

we don’t have time to shine

some of us

can’t avoid back roads

walled with trees

and spiked with odd life

our destination is always

out there, somewhere

just one more turn away

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.