My Cardboard Balcony

And She's High by Belinda Roddie And she's high over the new One World Trade Center, gracing the skies on a ribbon of smoke, winding closely around floating debris where planetside meets cosmos. And she's halfway to Mexico in a cartel truck, beanie pulled over her long hair, a cigar protruding from her lower lip and one hand on the steering wheel. The oasis awaits. It's no mirage. It is very, very green. ¿Qué día es hoy? No me importa. El agua, está fría. Puedo construit una balsa. Puedo salvarte antes de  que te ahogues. And then she's home. She's left half a bag of potato chips crumbled on the living room rug. Her labrador feeds on the shattered bits of salt while she wipes her eyes with the rag she used to brush the dust from the television set. But somewhere else, away from the piles of static, away from the phone calls delivered by squealing abusive ex-boyfriends, she's in the western lung of Chicago, saving the popul

Right above the canopy, a little man hovered on a suspended beam, drinking steadily from a leaking flagon with his hard hat lopsided on his curly hair. All around him, the third story of a building was being constructed, the clanging of steel on steel resulting in a heat emanating across the little man's face. He used the corner of his vest to wipe his chin, where syrupy whiskey dribbled from his lower lip.