I don’t know where I’m leaking nor do I know why
What goes in and goes out of me I can’t believe
Makes that much of a difference in what I am.
Yet I do feel I’m part of a vital program
Of some kind. And the people who use me may leave
With a sense of fulfillment. So, why then can’t I?

I believe I am stainless, though not made of steel.
Life does not happen to me but for me instead
So that when by my handling impatience collides
With the will of establishment life then provides
Opportunity to recoup and move ahead.
There’s some sense of suspension in all that I feel.

Sometimes I feel the stuff of life, gross in its form,
Saturate deep within me. I engage the flow.
Do I make the decision which cup I’m dipped in?
Or does life absolutely condemn me to sin?
Are these questions I dare ask? Or should I just know
It is best that the water not become lukewarm?