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.
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