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.