Old poem, from about 10-12 years ago, about the strange Christian practice of foot washing, something we observe on Maundy Thursday as part of Lent. Go ahead. Try it out in the mall yourself. Let me know how it goes.

Maundy Thursday, On the Run

“You also ought to wash one another’s feet.”—John 13:14

 To find a body willing is hard. In the mall, I asked old women, young men, a few clerks—could I please wash your feet? I held out a brand new bar of soap and a full blue plastic basin. The pink towel on my shoulder was clean.

And as you might expect, some folks dismissed this as a ploy. A wide man wearing green suggested I kiss his wide ass instead. His leather work boots squeaked against the tile as we each declined the other’s gesture.

It was a revelation just how many claimed their feet were plenty clean: tiny women in gossamer shoes; boys in sleek white Nikes; a cop’s polished black oxfords shone.

By the time I found someone, the water had grown cold. Yet he only winced a bit at the initial dip of his heel. Callused skin on the balls of his feet and a sharp nail on his big toe kept him from being a stranger. After dabbing dry his skin, I handed him his socks. He knotted up his laces. He asked was it my turn now? But by then I had to run.