The Process

So grateful the process is clean

and faithful. Does not cheat

like a disenchanted spouse

dozing on a haggard couch.

Take heart: the process is always right — 

is automatic, phlegmatic. Clean, cold,

and always refreshing. Brewed to perfection

some say. Guaranteed to satisfy

you might say. Give thanks the process

is organized. Synchronized and sterilized.

Optimized but not disguised, like

the grown man at my door long after

trick-or-treaters have gone, hand

outstretched, mask covering his eyes.

Thankful, too, for the oversight: no

boogeyman standing over the drain pipe,

clogging it with debris when no one sees

so he can charge you your life

for the cleaning; name your price.

And how shall we praise the instruments

of investigation? So shiny, so new, gleaming

with silver and glass? No traces of fingerprints

or funders. No whispered voices

softly requesting, of the results, a first glance.

There’s no need to come clean. We know

the process won’t fall prey to steak and wine

and then slink upstairs to spend some time,

just a little. The process doesn’t. The process

wouldn’t. The process isn’t that kind.