Maundy Thursday Away from Home

You, stranger, kneel
before me
with a basin of
warm water between us.
Humbling yourself
to wash my feet.

I, wanderer, sit
in this strange apse
with my bare toes cold
on the marble floor.
Exposing myself
to your care.

Trusting that you
will not wrinkle your nose
at the perfume of shoes
that have circumambulated
the city today.

Hoping that you
will not look askance
at the hobbit hair
my razor missed.

Wondering what
this ritual will bring.

We are not, you and I,
Mary and Jesus or Jesus and disciple.
I have never
raised your brother from the dead.
You have never
called me to be a fisher of men.
Yet no one has ever
held my feet so reverently.
You have
touched my most private public part.

I, now clean, clothe my feet.
I resolve
to tap you on the shoulder
to take your place
to know the humbling.

But the line is empty.
Too nervous to expose myself,
I had waited too long.
And did not seize
the opportunity to be humble.


I could not sleep last night, and, anticipating today's holy day, I recalled the time I spent Passion Week at a conference in Boston. I had made the travel arrangements not realizing that it was Passion Week, and was initially disappointed to be away from home. But I was able to attend services at an amazing cathedral in Boston and to be fully attentive while there. I will never forget.
Free verse is fairly new to me. I find myself clinging to parallel structure in the absence of meter and rhyme.