A Warts-and-All Kind of Thing

Twenty five years of this and I have grown tired of the prairie chicken,
its puffed-up feathers cackling "Choose Me!  Choose Me!"

Let the younger ones fill out their chests and holler.
I have found my ease in the soft, unspectacular facts.
In me.

I suppose there will always be that thing that hovers over me,
the one that whispers "be bigger, be brighter, be cleverer."
This business of teaching is a cocky one
    and I am but a middling player
my strut an uneven cadence
    betrayed by a faulty metronome

And still.
Still, I show up each day and play my song with confidence,
certain a teen or two will read my prospectus,
fingering those few coins of hope,
now tucked away in warm, linty pockets

I show up because I have a secret.

Sometimes, it is the freckled, honest skin hidden beneath those showy feathers
    that others crave most. 
The confirmation that they are not alone
in their doubts,
their flaws,
their dreams.