::Ilija Djurovic::


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.


Translated from the Serbian by:: Tanja Sladinovska