By Cynthia Rylant
He washed his feet for the picture,
even his knees,
and wondered about that man
who cared enough to want him to sit there
for a photograph
even though he didn’t have nothing good to hold in his hands,
nor even a dog to sit by his chair.
It gave him, briefly,
some sort of feeling
of just being enough.
I was randomly reminded of this poem today. I hadn't thought about it in so long, but I love it.