a season of discontent

and life moves on, like a crawling tadpole about to take its first step on land.
my terrace is a cheap replacement for the sands of Goa.
yet i park my behind and sun-bathe like an inglorious individual.

unusually warm for this time of the year. the ants are out of their hibernation and back to what they do best--invade my kitchen. my landlord's sons believe a loud barbecue party is the best way to end the season's depression. coal flakes fly all over my head. my clothes line creates a hyperbolic shape under the weight of all the clothes that we refuse to pick up and pack in.

"Who told you to leave your job at a time like this?"