I no longer like the August rain,
gone are the days when
I sat in my apartment
and made the monsoon
my muse, going on and on
about silvery streaks like
the tears of benevolent providence
coating the cobblestones,
and flooding us with eunoia,
making us pursue our passions
with meraki, the song of the stars
and wind’s whopping cadence
bringing out our inner pluviophile.
That utopianism died when I
squandered my inheritance,
turning the whispery wisteria
with its purple transcendence into
ashes. I flip burgers at McDonald’s now
in a country with no dignity of
labour. I wear a red shirt, black
pant and a silly red hat and
stand across Bozo or Ronald
McDonald or Binky or whatever
they call him, with his gaudy orange
robes and hair that makes him
look like a twisted, serial killer,
a sick smile plastered on his face.
I listen to the tragic stories of my
co-workers like the time some
guy spent 5000 rupees on burgers
which is our monthly salary.
I was that guy once. I cringe at
that thought. I got fat on chorizo
and bacon, pursued knowledge like
a prophet heeding the Lord’s call,
read books about anti-natalism,
nihilism, divine darkness as expounded on
by Meister Eckhart or some other
theologian or philosopher,
half-agreeing with what they said,
wearing ideas on my sleeve like a hypocrite,
devoured John Updike with his lyrical
take on the amorous, quotidian
realities of protestant America,
listened to post-rock, jazz, trip-hop,
indie pop, rock and psychedelia,
offering my two cents on every
bloody thing with sesquipedalian
loquaciousness like a bratty, snooty,
verbose know-all, and what was the
point of it all? I ended up becoming
the ‘purple poseur’ or the ‘lit-bro,’
a caricature of a learned man who
spoke of Thomas Hardy’s poetic
maturity when asked about the
August weather. An intellectual troll,
a knowledgeable bastard with no
acumen, a fool with his hot takes
and histrionics. Look at me! I still
can’t stop! I couldn’t get a white
collar job because I had no work
experience, and did nothing except
smoke cigarettes and read for
eleven years. So here I am, looking at
Jinky, Linky, Winky, IT or whatever
they call him, hoping and praying that
no one I know from college
comes up to the counter,
making me suppress my shame,
plaster a grin on my face
and say, “Welcome to McDonald’s.
What can I get you, sir?”
Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash
For dVerse
Ordinary Person 
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