My conscience sits
like a box
on my stairway.

Go away, I say.
You should be
nicer, he says.

Then like quicksilver
he flows into
the street

announcing all my
past sins
to the neighbors.

No wonder this neighborhood
is as unfriendly as a shark
on steroids, I say.

Grow
up!
he says.

If you see my conscience
sunning himself on some corner
leave him there and don’t

disturb him.
I don’t want
him back.