The
conscience that was born with me
Came
out in spots one day and then
Took
to its bed, went all green,
And
died an improving death. Nine days later
I
toured the notional attic where sit
Things
my family cannot get rid of.
The
old conscience I brought down
Was
obviously made for a larger man;
A
tailor cut it down and watchmakers
Set
it going. We never really got along;
It
sneered at the crimes and sins I brought it
Saying
“Delicts and misdemeanors! A bent
Piece
of envy, duties undone and taxes
Underpaid!
The mice in the attic
Committed
wrongs better-wrought than these!”
I
urged it to get out more, accusing it
Of
not understanding the times. It said
I
wasn’t worth bad dreams; instead
It
would occasionally throw a small rock at me
Then
disappear. sometimes for months
So
I’d have to hire temporary consciences --
All
of whom really wanted to be actors –
When
I was invited to formal occasions.
Still,
it has never been gone so long before
And
I find myself fearing it’s found
A
subject worthy of its mettle.
You’d think
A
conscience would have a finer sense of honor
Than
to abandon me after all these years.
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