My battered old uncle’s feet br soaking in br the blue porcelain bowl br delight in his br ooohs & ahhhhs br br as the miles of farm br from dawn to dusk br (lost now in the warm) br fall off his br tired old gnarly feet br br float to the surface br like scum & shaved calluses br I pat dry br his old knobbly toes br in the fluffy luxury br of a big white towel br br laugh at him br telling the little boy I am br “Ah, good man…good man! ” br br *** br br “Hello...hello? ” br “Earth calling Donall! ” br you smile. br “Penny for ‘em? ” br you laugh. br br “I was washing my uncle’s feet...” br I softly cry br somewhere a long long time ago.