Every Body Poem by Frank Avon

Our bodies are all the same
and no two at all alike.

I sit by the window
in the coffee shop
at a med center,
and all the bodies I see,
walking by outside,
waiting for the valet,
in the lobby,
entering this shop,
standing in line,
finding a table,
sitting, talking, sobbing,
sipping beverages,
lingering,
talking on cell phones,
munching salads and sandwiches,
just sitting,
just waiting,
as am I:


HUGE BOTTOMS STRETCHING THE SEATS OF JEANS,
HUGE BELLIES TWICE THE SIZE THEIR WAIST SHOULD BE
TALL, THIN, OYSTER PALE, WITH HUGE, HUGE FEET
HUGE BOOBS PROTRUDING OVER OBESE BODIES, BOUNCING
SHORT, HISPANIC, SQUARE WITH A BELLY BULGING
HAIR, BLEACHED BLOND, PILED UP ON SMALL HEADS, UNMADE FACES
TALL ANGULAR, BREASTLESS FRAME DETERMINED HER HIPS WILL SWAY
A SHORT ASIAN, SQUARE SHOULDERS, SLENDER WAIST, BARE CALVES
A YOUNG BLOCK, BROAD CHEST, STRONG, BARELY 5'4', PLODDING
TINY, TINY GRANDMOTHERLY BLACK WOMAN SLIGHTLY BENT, FRAIL
CARROT RED HAIR ABOVE A STARCHY WHITE SHIRT AND BLUE NECKTIE
BLACK TIGHTS, SILKEN BLOUSE, ASHEN SKIN AND BRIGHT RED NAILS
SHAPELESS WIDE, WIDE HIPS AND SAGGING BREASTS, ROLLING ALONG
AGING, IN A DOCTOR'S UNIFORM, ROMAN NOSE, THIN WHITE HAIR
LONG LEGS, LONG WAIST, THIN TEEN TORSO IN WALKING SHORTS & T-SHIRT
JULIUS CAESAR IN A WHEELCHAIR, CHIN OUT, DOMINATING HIS TABLE
MOSTLY BIG HANDS, PRIDEFUL, IN AN EXECUTIVE'S SUIT OF BROWN SHEEN
A LITTLE GIRL IN PIGTAILS, ALL LEGS AND ARMS AND EYES

and many, many more
more obese than skinny,
more skinny than square,
a few square but none
built by the builders' blueprint
no Miss America figure-eights
no vee-shaped male torsos
none worthy of Michelangelo
no David
no Botticlellian Venus a-borning
no Faun and Bacchante
no Cupid and Psyche
not the Adam and Eve of Peter Paul Rubens
or of Antonio Molinari or Hendrick Goltzius
no, many more like Fernando Botero's on Pinterest,
nude and very broad, milky white, seen from the rear
or profiled with all their weight, seated,
or frontal with just a hint of pubic hair
(never mind the long phallic serpent,
red, dangling handily from the Tree)

and here I sit
staring,
just staring,
in this body,
the only one I have,
wearing out,
more than a bit breathless:

skinny legs and arms
little, round belly
flat chest
knobby knees
scar tissue here and there
slumped over
balding gray head
femoral artery blocked
ulnar artery numbed
aortic arteries rebellious
all aches and pains elsewhere
and ailments unseen
diabetic
hypertensive
anemic
hearing impaired
vision blurry
light-headed, weary, weak
coughing and congested
feet swollen
yes, breathless still
once 5'8', no longer
no longer...

no two alike
all the same.

We are our bodies
and we will never be
any body we once were
or wanted to be.
They wear out.
We wear them out.
They tear.
They're threadbare.
They shrink where they shouldn't shrink.
They spread where they shouldn't spread.
They fade.
Come unmade.

Bodies
are all we see
of our souls,
all they've been
and are about to be.

We walk them without a leash.
They heel and sit upon command.
They reign
at our right hand,
and then,
they rein us in.

Across the table from me
in shiny sequins on black satin
and in faded jeans, skin tight,
with perfectly coiffed hair
of platinum silver
false, flagrant eye lashes,
a tan of 10
probably painted on
nails of turquoise
matching rings and beads
and rings in her ears,
she sits and stares
at bodies walking by
and stares at her hands
and into the air
as she speaks into her cell
and in her body
once petite
wiry now,
stale, leathery,
no longer fresh,
she sits

and she weeps.

Even bodies
so well made
so well preserved
are Benedict Arnolds
in the flesh.

For flesh is not
marble
or bronze
or even brass
or limestone.

Bodies are cells
(not phones)
in which we're imprisoned
and on our own.

Her childhood sweetheart
(they re-found each other
and finally married,
after all those years,
the end of a golden episode,
one flesh, at last,
just four months ago)
is the victim of organ failure,
terminal.

So are we all
So are we all.
Breathless yet.
Bodies all.
Every body.