Forefoot, arch, then ball
are held steamy in the moist cloth,
held with both hands
by a woman in Oregon caring
for a homeless man,
now shaved and fed.
A handful of artists attend
some women and children.
Their bruises are recorded with the camera,
then disguised. Slightly made up eyes
reflect the light; salon curls
bounce bravely on shoulders,
steps more confident
that something’s being made right.
Jesus, girded in a grimy towel,
prepared to bear all our walk,
all our dirt-alleyed troubles,
actions, and talk.
He wiped the blackened soles
with what passed for His robe.
And so for us to put on Christ,
to be resplendent in white,
comes with the dingy apron
of compassion, kindness, humility.
Unashamed to bear less illustrious
working-wear, we’re neither slave nor free,
Jew nor Greek, man nor lady, distinctions
never dictating destiny.
