My Cardboard Balcony

Fisherman by Belinda Roddie The dreaded eskimo landscape is melting away fast, a gaping bleeding maw salivating frostbite for the very last time. You trudge the slush and go fishing in new ponds while your home city of San Francisco turns to ice. And though the snowfall is first exciting, the golden gate is not better silver. The bay goes solid and leaves sailboats stuck beneath the glazed bridge while up north, you catch a dozen fish and eat them in the sticky sun raw.

The girl with a platinum voice had a sadly limited vocabulary. True, when stacks of sheet music riddled with the whims and worries and woes and wraths of its writers, she could sing it all. She could tell stories, ballads, epics, or she could sing lullabies, prayers, hymns. But when she was offstage, something changed. It was all, "Yes, sir," or "Yes, ma'am," or "Thank you." And as she smiled and waved at her fans, her father stood with that same limited look peeling off his face.