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