A weekend revolutionist
Friday evenings too
Sometimes, rarely,
During the week
He has a name
Not on the plastic card
Issued by the government
He sees as a parent
He must fight against
Like an angry teenager
He has a sensible name
On his birth certificate
Which, according to him,
Belongs to a different him
But it is the same sheet of paper
He took with him
To all those job interviews
At those top firms
And now, he sits in a smoke-filled room
As paper and leaves burn
Making them one with the earth
As their lord
Mother Nature
The beautiful, the pure
Touches their souls
Like no one ever has
And they kiss the soles
Of her dark feet
Murmur a prayer
And scribble a poem
He is the weekend rebel
With his long curls and beard
Cotton shirts
Dazed look
He is a poet
Well-known on social media
Under a name
No self-respecting parent
Would give their child
And he write poems
That are just words
He reads aloud each
As if he carved them
Himself
And the others applaud
Their mighty fighter
Impressed by his
Hateful, incomprehensible poetry
And his phone rings then
He sees her name in the screen
It's no fancy smartphone
Just the kind fit for the oppressed
Of course, unlike the one
He uses at work
And he tells her to join him
Later that night
To explore the pleasures
Hidden beneath clothing
And as the night turns into dawn
Our revolutionist bids goodbye
To his cotton pants
And slurred speech
He wakes up early
Has his tea
Wears his shirt and pants
Combs and ties his hair
He takes the bus
To the building that reaches the clouds
Standing tall right next to its twin
And there he is
At his cubicle
Following the rules
No longer a rebel
A man married to socialism
And sleeping with capitalism
Or is his wife the latter
And mistress the former?
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