My Cardboard Balcony

A Slur On Monday by Belinda Roddie Look at the handprint you left behind - the one tinged with red ink, the tint lingering on the rigid whiteboard in the back of the room. Your palm has left such an impact, I'm surprised I don't see your life line tattooed against what used to be pure pearl. Perhaps it'll wind up shorter than you expect, if you stay this tactless all year. How fascinating it is that a single word, with lines crossed like married fingers censoring the strain, can be so bold as to change the color of a day. The sunset brings the Pollock pattern to the wall, but as the bokeh sits comfortably, I can't seem to bring the better parts of my work into focus or make the subtle sneer of youthful bigotry blur.

Larry pokes Gary in the chest. Gary reacts angrily and gets in Larry's face. Larry, in retaliation, insults Gary's mother. The two boys get into a fist fight before afternoon tea is served. Their father is embarrassed, and their auntie gets the vapors. Their mother, meanwhile, unscrews the cap of another bottle of whiskey. She swallows an entire mouthful and enjoys how much it burns.