::Ilija Djurovic::
K.
I do not have O’Hara’s lunch break, for no one ever cooks.
I have a job. I ride a rickshaw through the city of Berlin.
I feed (the) Kreuzkölln.
I have my sick leave continued till they lay me off.
My father does the same in Podgorica. Also a driver.
My girlfriend says, we’re genetically non-workers.
I tell her we are organic intellectuals.
She tells me to forget about that Gramsci shit.
I say she is a capitalist. A female-capitalist, I say.
I tell her I refuse to be shoved about by hipster pricks.
She tells me I am a non-worker, anyway.
But, today, out of the blue, Karla from Costa Rica joined me at my table.
She said she is my guardian angel with an 18-year-old son
And a 16-year-old daughter and that in South America one can still live
Quite, quite nicely. Much better than in stinky Berlin, she says.
I tell her I am a rickshaw rider and happy. She laughs,
That beautiful dark Costa Rican mum.
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Translated from the Serbian by:: Tanja Sladinovska