Can You See the Real Me I motion with my hand. It's a contrite and resigned gesture that outlines my body from sunken shoulder to rickety knee. My intention? To show I'm reconciled with ordinary truth, my nonchalant shrug and playful wink offer my deft apology. I have to make my home here, for now, is what I'm trying to say. Our minds don't travel in a durable vessel for this fitful voyage. Should I paint you instead an effusive depiction of a summer's day? Can't you see I'm a man? We're here for less time than an apple tree. There are patterns in the way the leaves fall or how days unfold. Music is patterned sound, poetry is patterned language, when I can't discern the patterns in what people say or why, I can drown in the explanations my mind is driven to grow, nurse, and imbibe. Can you see the real me, here before you, taking a bow with a nod? Offered in the wrong direction, our dialogue, our words are flawed.