Sometimes The Clothes Do Not Make The Man

I am not the man
left hanging in the closet -
the patterned plaid
of slip knot
mother sent for Christmas
or the herringbone
caul of wool
that shrouds my skin from winter.
I am not the grey flanneled stride
that steals the sidewalk
from children jumping rope
or the cable stitched fisherman
stalking the wharf
and crumbling pier
when dusk comes calling.
I am but a bonescrap
and a dream,
a plural
of nerve and tendon
that keeps a distant profile,
coaxes living
from these garments
and owns the face of many.