Feet. One, two, three.
Each one different,
Encrusted with dirt,
the skin is leather.
He takes them with his hands,
dips them in the basin,
one by one,
rubs the dirt out.
He washes them all,
twenty-four, in a row
Until they are clean.
His back aches as he straightens,
Draws off the towel,
Dons his robes again.
He turns and sees the eyes
Looking at him.
Eyes, twenty-four of them,
All staring at him.
Dark eyes, light,
clouded, and earthy,
Surrounded by creases,
Squinted in confusion,
With dark, beautiful lashes,
And blood-shot eyes,
And innocent,
And guilty.
All look into his.
And he stares back.
His voice,
"Do you understand
what I have done for you?"
