My Cardboard Balcony

The Fine Diner by Belinda Roddie Red ascot napkin paper cup handbag sip a whiskey Ahhhhh. Nothing like the fine aged morning with a musky sun dangling like a pendulum back and forth on whittled clouds so easy to chip away with toothpicks He wipes his mouth samples a mussel He wipes his mouth samples his muscle against the tablecloth of forest animals shivering under the booger-heavy snout of a clout Mother notices he used the wrong fork for his cobb salad and left red and pink and blue hazelnut screws glistening under handshakes from talking starch shirts and saxophone neckties

There's the old saying about "if walls could talk," and can I just say thank God they don't? I mean, if they were gossiping about the stuff I did in my room, it'd be all over! And no, it does not involve naughty things. It involves...silly things. Like maybe, just maybe, I have a collection of swords that I brandish sometimes to act cool. Or I think of random songs to play and sing on my guitar. ...DON'T JUDGE ME, WALLS. I KNOW YOU ARE.