Bill Ayres

ALL THE ROOM YOU NEED

Thick enough
to keep the outside out.
I wrap your muscles, cover bone, keep blood inside,
protect you from what crawls,
what cuts, what bites

while letting light in the eyes,
breath at the nostrils,
stretching to let in what you chew and swallow.

Reach out. Let me caress, rub, so you feel
how soft and warm her skin is here
and here, and know what counts as smooth if bark is rough.

You know that I’m unable to protect you long
from freezing temperatures
and after too much sun, I peel.

I don’t begrudge the clothes
and tents you make.
They mimic me. They sag, they tear.

Nor do I feel insulted
that you build with timber, steel, and brick.
It’s fine you see the world through glass,
that you shield yourself from trees and breezes
though you know I’d enjoy their touch.

Remember-- no matter what shelter you choose--
I’m your roof, your walls, your floor.
Scarred, callused, wrinkled, I’m your home.

Bill Ayres lives in Va. Beach. Several times a year he goes down to the ocean to make sure it's still there and still wet. His work has appeared in Commonweal, Sojourners, The Blue Collar Review, The Hollins Critic.... His books are What Passes for Wisdom and Jesus Poems.