I curse my inability to rise
out of this bed of humanity
to go to the bathroom
where I can eliminate
from all eyes
the waste of my life.
Yet again I have lost control
and soiled myself.
Full of pride and shame,
I lie in my filth
hoping someone will just come
to take it all away
and clean me up.
But they don’t. Who would?
And who can blame?
I am not worthy.
When I can stand it no longer,
I finally call for you,
and you come quickly.
You are gentle--not scolding
as with a petulant child
refusing to be potty trained.
You understand the situation
and sense my shame.
Quietly, you get to work,
calling two others to help lift me
while you strip away the filthy sheets,
then fill a basin with warm water
and, soaping up a soft cloth,
cleanse my most private parts.
I cling to you and cry like a baby
exposed to die, picked up by saving hands.
“There, there, now” you console.
“It’s alright. That’s what I’m here for.”
And you are not rough or rushed
as though I am a chore,
but with the wonder of a mother
delighting in the joy of her baby
even in the changing of diapers,
you care for me.
Again, lifting, scrubbing all down,
like Christ, you clothe me
in cleanliness I cannot do for myself,
until once again I lie
in crisp white sheets
if only for a little while.