Stages in the Development of ConscienceDear child whom I’ve just caught peeling new paintFrom the gleaming picket on the second stair,Why seems an obvious question. For answer you stareBack through the railings with the flat, impenitentGaze of a cat which has shredded the damask chairOn which it lounges in splendor while some humanCaterwauls incomprehensibly above itsOblivious head. Now, really, I like cats,But if we want a species with moral acumen –Oh, never mind. Forget my asking why.White paint drifts down like snow onto the floor.You fix me with your blankly feline eye.Paint’s cheap. The day's half-spent already. ICan’t think why why would matter any more.