Housing
       

Some don’t have it and need it badly
            and dream of it, and some who have it
                        are almost sure to lose it
sooner than they dreamed, and some dream
            and feel happier there
                        than they ever might have been
while spending their unhouseled lives
            in real rooms. Many believe almost
                        exclusively in landlords
and look on mansions as very expensive mistakes,
            and many have buried what they think of
                        as their lives behind doors,
behind windows, under ceilings, above carpets,
            keeping their sore eyes open or closed
                        according to clocks. But meanwhile,
the animals dig or weave their own
            or borrow them from others or crouch
                        on branches till the light of day
comes back again or float on water
            or hover under it or huddle together
                        on ice floes and take their turns
inside a warm circle of others like themselves
            or out on the cold edge,
                        and some just stand alone and keep long days
and nights to themselves. A few have learned
            to turn the curves and hinges of their bodies
                        inward for the safekeeping
of spirits. Tonight, I’ll lie down again
            in one of the few ways I know how
                        with all of them, with all of them in mind.

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Copyright © 2014 David Wagoner All rights reserved
from Southern Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission