My Cardboard Balcony

Our Hometown by Belinda Roddie the house by the 5th and A intersection used to be a mental institute. if you walk by, you can smell weed, urine, and silent screams. a cage is just a gate that bars you from heaven, and wooden instruments save more lives than metal ones do. we all look suspiciously young, redheaded, and nosy. We're loud and we eat crackers in between meals. and if one of us ever became president of the United States, you can bet he would say, "that old house should be turned into a pizza place."

When the dusk had shrugged off its rosy cowl and nestled itself within the blue beard of night, I rode my motorcycle to the corner of Park and Baker and waited by the small general store sitting by the intersection. It was cold and I drew my coat closer to me, my breath freezing on my visor. My father was meant to meet me here, ragged and gray and just as I expected him to. But it had been six minutes already past nine and he was nowhere to be seen.