The famous man exhibited with pride
his brittle, white beard,
wrinkled cheeks hanging dry beneath
dim eyes,
a bent back seeming too weak even
to bear his shirt,
and I, embarrassed to see him like this,
thought, "Why not show him as he really was?"
Which made me step back from the portrait.
Which made me blush for myself.
Can we already be our true selves
while our cheeks are still full of blood,
our eyes sparkling and quick,
our heads crowned with rich color,
our bodies upright and strong
like the spare, steel frames
of a new construction site?
How can we be who we really are,
who we always were,
who we will always be in memory,
until the years have stripped away
all the bright things
that cling stubborn as shrink wrap
to our exteriors?
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