The renegade conformist sheepishly
insists the application must be typed.
He says they won’t accept facsimile
because it isn’t doubled, folded, striped
the same. “Impeccable,” the man demands,
who seldom notes appearances. “It must
be typed, in ink, just so.” He understands
directions now, and follows them with lust.

“Is this a ritual?” I ask, because
I can’t suppress the question. “Must I cross
my hands like this, and follow detailed laws
of mystery? I think you ought to toss
the form.” (I don’t intend to injure him,
but he has kids who can’t afford his whim).