He washes my feet. Poor stumbling Peter balked
To see him kneeling slavelike with the bowl.
When my turn came, I smiled to hide my soul.
Kneeling, did he see the temple dust that chalked
My sandals, dust that gathered while I talked
With priests of silver to guide the watch patrol
To his retreat beside the olived knoll?
His look gave one last fork from the doom I walked.
Innocence offers itself before my seat,
Wrapped in white cloth to dry baptismal beads;
I wrench to fling myself prostrate, and gape
To find I sit erect. Even now escape
From my crime shines in his yearning face. He reads
His fate and knows my choice, yet washes my feet.
