The dramas of my life aren't rooted in love, friendship or politics
No. They come from an unremarkable man sitting behind an old desk in a dingy room
We rarely speak or exchange messages or greetings
And even when we do, they are short and immemorable
Month after month, he colors me red, washing over the happiness I have stitched together, piece by piece
We are not enemies and friends, nor are we adversaries
And yet here I am, suffering and witnessing the incompetence of my tax man
May he learn. May he live and let live.
Amen.