Uncomfortable

There are times I am uncomfortable
In my own skin.
I want to be someone else.

A southern gentleman, perhaps
Sipping bourbon on a wide front porch
Attended by a loving daughter
Who esteems suitors by the standards
Established by my gracious example.

Or maybe I could own a garage
And wear an oil-stained blue shirt
With my name stitched above the pocket.
I would teach my son the honor of hard work
And knuckle-busting dedication
To my craft.

I don’t need to be a jet jockey
A quarterback
Fireman or cop.
I have no urge to be a superhero
It’s not in me to entertain the masses
Be anyone’s idol
To own the skyline
Or have a prestigious byline.

Maybe I could drive a truck.
I would know where to find the best cup of coffee
A good biscuits and gravy breakfast
And the cutest waitresses, coast-to-coast.

I might be a dog-walker
A radio talker
Night stalker
Carnival barker
Boat caulker
Or car parker.

But, like an NFL referee, I must say
“Upon further review”
No matter what my trade
Or the satisfaction of career
Nothing could soothe this inner ache
Because they all address the wrong need.

It’s not a matter of what I do
But who I am.
And, until I am content
With the man in the mirror
Anything else comes down to
“Do you want fries with that??”