This past Saturday,
	strolling in the park by the river,
I was accosted by the Moral Inquisitor  –
his finger was pressed on my breast,
the bells on the ends of his hat
		jingled.
He wore jester's garments, but in black.
"We have to talk," he said.

It would be too easy to call him
a creature of caricature,
too easy to dismiss him, his stern eye,
as ridiculous, inconsequential.

In the scheme of all things,
these things linger,
their portent lying
		in the hearts
	of the future.