Lounging

surrounded

by this great cloud of

witnesses

behind and before me

letters

the stepping stones

speaking out Your name.

 

I cannot bear to drink

from the cup

You’ve been offered,

yet I continue to request

a seat at your table.

The left, of course,

my liberal side,

but not too much so

because I am more comfortable here

with my OCD

holding me fast
to the simplest forms

of norms

I’m not willing to do without.

 

Stepping in time

with this parade of sinners

saints, as they go marching in

robed in the school colors

blood of the lamb washed white

technicolor dreams

of funding the arts

reflecting facets

of Your unending

spin cycle

the rinse and repeat

as I stare

while You hand wash

the delicates.

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