To be not

They say one is to be loved for what one is 
and what one will be, and I totally agree. 
But I pause at the thought of being loved
for what one is not and never going to be. 
For example, I am never that clean chested
celebrity whose life is played out in the papers.
And I am never going to be the bearded Indus
man of the unicorn fame who stands his ground 
for millenniums. The virile bull still stomping its feet 
dipped in undecipherable ink. Nor will I ever be
from that line of men frozen in terracotta time. 
Also, there is no ray of chance for me to wander
into a stanza of daffodils dancing in the face
like an inescapable landscape. The oil paintings 
will never drip themselves into some other shape. 
What I am, always takes the back seat of the car 
and darts from window to window to be 
with something gone by. While what I am not
speeds ahead on a road of discontent and I feel
more unrecorded and more grandiose like someone
who is not burdened by anticipatory greatness. 
And someone who is even less than a statistic.