SCRUPLES

 

               Scruples

                                                          I heard that they are small stones

                                                          That irritate, get under your skin,

                                                          Rub between your foot’s nerves

                                                          And your shoe’s progress

                                                          Until inflammation throbs

                                                          And poisons the whole of you.

                                                          Worse yet, a callus could build,

                                                          Training you to keep walking halt,

                                                          While thinking it’s those who stride upright

                                                          Who walk strangely.

 

                                                          The crafty train themselves to speak

                                                          Right through a mouthful of scruples,

                                                          Demosthenes hiding the stones

                                                          While selecting words around them,

                                                          In spite

                                                          Of them.

 

                                                          All of us gather them,

                                                          Finger and worry them,

                                                          Barter them with one another.

                                                          (So precious they become!)

                                                          The currency of justification:

                                                           Curated pebbles called scruples.

 

                                                          One day

                                                          In a free order

                                                          Where records are not kept,

                                                          I will have just one stone:

                                                          Blank white,

                                                          Bearing no mark

                                                          Of any obligation:

                                                          Only my new name,

                                                          Not to be taken by another,

                                                          Given by the Nameless,

                                                          Who alone knows me.

                                                                                Rob Wilson, Oblate