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.

More Poems by Dilruba Ahmed