That layer thin
That keeps us in:
It's on our chin,
Our shin, our grin;
It goes from our noses
To the tips of our toeses,
Cell sheets enormous
That cool or warm us;
Not unlike a thermos
Is our epidermis.
Some parts can grow hair,
Some parts are more bare,
And then there's what's called
Just downrightly bald.
Our skin can sense
The world immense:
What’s cold, what’s hot,
What’s soft, what’s not;
And quickly alert us
When something has hurt us—
Especially when
The skin we're in
Is thin.


                                      © 1999