In Brief, The Case

I flabbergast 
when I posture
and the imposter in me
gets postered on a lost wall

I know I am false
I breeze true for a whisper
the light firms in me

like the fire from the car
when Orpheus saw his
house burn
the whole attic

five years old and it was winter
and somehow every poem
has not been about that

the car kept refueling and
bribing the road 
and the road didn't flinch

at money or fear
until heat melted the edges
and I rested
in a briefcase of a ditch