My Cardboard Balcony

A House is Built of Silver by Belinda Roddie A house is built of silver down the road where I live, its walls sleek and so pristine. As I carry my daily heavy load, I take a long look at the perfect sheen and glow of the archways that lead to its glossy gates, where the silver cars are perched on paved driveways that have similar glitz and glam. I watch a little boy then lurch onto the sidewalk just beside the home. His eyes are gray but gloriously bright, his hair thick and matted and shiny chrome. He goes to see his mother, all in white, her precious metal coated lips a-smile; the silver is too much once in a while.

"Look at you," spat Barry, "in your beads and leathery, your feathers and your tattoos. You take yourself to be an enthusiast, don't you? Admiring those Native American tribes that withered away under the mighty hand of Andrew Jackson, a man with big, iron balls. You think you're some great chief, are you not, owning some casino to cheat the American man out of his mon - " He abruptly cut himself off upon looking at the man more closely. "Oh. You are a Native American chief. I'll go into my asshole corner, then."