One lifetime in the queue 
and I am invited upstairs to see the Manager. 
Thank you for waiting. How may We be of service? 
The answer to all Mysteries before me 
and all I can come up with 
is to ask for a refund. 
I'm afraid this may be a factory fault; 
We'll have to take it up with Our Supplier…

...Who informs Us that They have contacted the Manufacturer, 
Who wishes for you to describe the fault so that They may decide 
whether to repair or replace. What did you say the problem was? 

Unable to describe how I was supposed to function, 
I clumsily fabricate the best of all possible worlds
and in finding myself become the Manufacturer;
another Self-made demiurge
here to disgrace the parishioners 
and their microcosmic petitions, some of whom, 
despite the staggering indifference of Our fledgling divinity, 
sincerely believe 
that We are assigned Our lot according to ability, 
in bland rapture to the image; Our Adversary; the goat-headed 
marketing team- What is the problem?
Such is the question He begs! 

I hastily appoint a clerk to resume the litany, 
a Representative; to bring absence into presence;
beings out of nothing; obedient little Selves; 
ever more dull-witted deities for this interminable pantheon- Sir, are you alright? 
Really sir, what is that look on your face? And would you please put that down? It's fragile.

 
AND SO witness with relief 
how bureaucracy invents itself 
just to cope with the influx of complaints, 
for what is Heaven 
if not the indefinite deferral of responsibility? 

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