Mannerisms subside into manners
with age, affectation to mere affect.
Our ego doffs its badges and banners -
souvenirs to be boxed in the attic.
For “I am” now means something more and less
than what it meant when we were young and brash,
mistaking conceit for subtle finesse
and costumed morbidity for panache.
Throughout our youth we try things out for size;
nothing fits very well for very long.
Identity is an elusive prize
to be announced with a bang on a gong
when some god’s judged, “Yes, this is who you are.”
But we slough this off whenever we get that far!