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.