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. 

On the Way to the Work Event

I am armed

to the teeth

with psychic defense.

I will face-melt away

all the bristling

and tense

and use firefly poetry

to billow my cerebral tent.

I’ll puff

my predator

terror colors

like a menacing

bullfrog

to chase away

Philistine gnats

in well-tailored suits.

Let our minds eyes

strike

with lethal

blue lightning.

Let no one

cross our

poetic trenches.

And we will

forge victory

after victory

seeping righteous

artistry and beauty

into the bloodlines

of future generations.