My Cardboard Balcony

I Feel Like Dancing by Belinda Roddie I feel like dancing in tails and top hat until all of the calluses on my feet scream for delightful mercy, while the heavy boombox resounds with current pop succulence and jazzy nostalgia, the treble clef bouncing with glee along the measure bars rattling like a vibraharp shaking from my aching heels and you're there dancing with me until our ankles squeak and we shriek with joy.

My scorn was not unbridled toward the tiny child sitting with a beanie on his head and a red lollipop that was growing sticky in his left hand. He stood above the wreckage of what used to be little cars and green soldiers and building blocks, and the look on his pink face was more than sheepish. "Billy," I growled. He lowered his head. "Msry." "What was that?"