Company

“Company”

(“Then Jesus poured water into a bowl and began to wash the followers’ feet. He dried their feet with the towel that was wrapped around his waist.” John 13:5)

Even a poet’s feet get filthy,
feel squishy between the toes after rain,
freeze in the winter.
But I would not claim to be a poet
just to redeem my claim to stand in line
for another pedicure.

Poet, defined; the words they line up in a dictionary:
one who writes poetry.

If the offer is to all who fulfill the definition, void of any
reference to the quality of work product, laureates or publications,

Then I think I will, if you please, allow my uncut toenails
be seen as I sit in between number one and three. They had
an appointment, and I decided at the last minute. My socks are
dank, end of day.

Poet’s sweat, anxiety happens.

Peter said it all for me, didn’t he? “No, not my feet!
Please don’t touch them! They are wrinkled, old with calluses,
black with city dirt and are quiet ugly, having inherited my
mother’s long second toe and my father’s hammer.”

Peter heard it for me, didn’t he? “You are not one of mine,
if I do not wash your feet. I know your objection: you are human,
I am divine. Now let me wash you; it is time.”

Peter said it all for me, one more time, didn’t he? “Then a shower, please!”

Peter heard it for us, didn’t he? “You’re clean already”.

Some think poets hardly work and would rather throw words to the wind
and hope they float down rearranging again into the next epic. And we do.
If it were possible. If world’s were created thusly.

He calls me clean and I still wash the sweat vigorously,
(my scent may define me). But today I sit in line, talk shop
with poets one and three
and wonder that any of us are asked
to keep Him company.