Wasted Wine

Tonight I lay in bed in dread of returning in the morning to the beige building on that dead end street that floods like the Nile after a rain potholes in the parking lot like a lunar landscape to my tiny office the last on the left in the back its one window facing a barren farmer’s field where I’ll listen to the click-clack of the keyboard as my fingers fly nimbly over it I must have been meant for so much more than this mind numbing monotony of minimum wage pay though I have a college degree to type marriage licenses and divorce decrees tax returns submitted by the wealthy that only serve as stark reminders of forty years of failure to make the world take notice of me as if I were cursed from the cradle to be covered with a cloak of invisibility forever to remain a nobody that no one can hear or see as all the magic in my mind withers on the vine wasted before it could be made into wine