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She suspected that much.
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She thought of Mucho, her husband, trying to believe in his job.
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Was it something like this he felt
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looking through the soundproof glass at one of his colleagues
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with a headset clamped on and cueing the next record
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with movements stylized as the handling of chrism,
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censer, chalice might be for a holy man
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yet really tuned into the voice, voices, the music, its message,
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surrounded by it, digging it, as were all the faithful it went out to?
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Did Mucho stand outside Studio A looking in
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knowing that even if he could hear it he couldn't believe in it?
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She gave up presently as if a cloud had approached the sun