Maundy Thursday
Kirby's no Catholic, at least he doesn't believe
the Pope's infallible. Infallibility's for me,
the one he counts on for treats under the table
when no one is looking, or he trails me into
his mistress's laundry room, where
doggy perks are stored along with "Tide, Free &
Gentle, plastic containers of color safe bleach
destined for the King Size clean-machines
as good as any Laundromat on planet earth.
In the church of my persuasion, Thursday
of Holy Week is when parishioners, called for duty,
come forward on cue to sit on folding chairs
before God and the world, while a priest, kneeling
in his grandiose garments washes their feet
in the old way, (a bar of soap, "Dial" maybe,
"Don't you wish everybody did!", a basin
of water, a towel or three) as our Blessed Lord
demonstrated on his way to the tree.
Barefoot at bedtime, sleeping over
with those I love most, Kirby, senior citizen
of our family dog-dom, granted privileged access
to the end of my bed, takes sacramental care
of the object of his affections. My left foot
carefully washed, special attention
to the toes, (no thorns on this rose), are
hors d'oeuvres he does not sample
in his ample love.
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