My conscience was cooking last night.
From my bedroom window, I saw its guests come in through the back door.
After dark and in a single file.
Their right hand on the right shoulder of the one ahead of them.
The first guest his arms outstretched, following his nose.
They wore a black cape with a hood.
And a shadow fell over most of their face.
They spoke softly in a foreign tongue.
From upstairs, I heard them clink glasses, getting louder with each toast.
When they left, it was late.
The rest of the village was asleep.
From my window, I saw them carrying my conscience above their head.
It spotted me looking down on it and waved in a drunken stupor.
I waved back, closed the shutters, and went back to bed.
I knew they’d bring my conscience back.
They always do.
They like its cooking.