My Cardboard Balcony

Stout In A Drought by Belinda Roddie pub life under hot lights the phantom collects coins and cans, all emptied of the liquid strife that now soaks our swollen intestines you and I you and I you and I are lonely huddled on the corner stools draining tar from pitchers, drooling over deep fried residue outside it's a cold night a cigarette or two is shared the growing chill is amplified when equal parts depression's paired

When I was younger, I took a secret route to school because I was scared of a bully. This bully wasn't a kid you'd expect to be a bully; in fact, he was smaller than I was, scrawny and with glasses big enough to reflect the sun and bounce its rays back into space. He even spoke with a lisp. But he had it out for me and he knew how to throw a punch. I had gotten two black eyes from him before I started walking along a different road.