The Blossoming of Ayn Rand

An Ayn Rand devotee grows in Brooklyn,
reciting angsty teen poetry when he is not perusing
Anna Karenina’s Ashley Madison profile
or reading autoerotic autofiction
written by Atticus Finch before he was racist.

One of the poems reads:
“Balzac’s ballsack is
as hard to find as
a good man in a
Bechdel test.”

Another goes:
“All happy Brothers are alike;
each unhappy bird pooping on Franzen is
unhappy in its own way.”

“Are you there for me, Ayn?”
asks the angsty Brooklyn boy.
“It’s me, Alfred.
I’ve got another one!
It’s about a blooming tree as
a metaphor for the female orgasm.”

“Ayn?” he says.
“Ayn?”