It Is Your Part, After All Poem by James McLain

it is not like some lost water pump on a car,
you cant find,
though you would follow the steam, to the
source, through the air and get burned.
your part,
it is differing than that, would you have us
believe that the bench made of wood,
does not in the slightest way effect
your stage of the part that you feel,
when you rest upon it? , would you
give you a break from that..not..
how can we think that far on the
bench with no, pink oinks, to sing in it's play,
it is, in your part, that is made of hearts,
on the wood that you feel when it plays to your part
, of the one who can float through your play
on the stage, that he wrote in the dark,
while you slept, on those sheets made of care..