My Cardboard Balcony

Drummer's Corner by Belinda Roddie The hipsters like to say that they found the place first. It's bullshit 'cause we were here before they stomped over with heavy Toms. We played bongos and twirled sticks without the irony. We made beats to the sound of sirens and tow trucks, not with vinyls. We used trash can lids for cymbals because they were all we had, not all we wanted. And we matched synchronicity with jackhammers, the yellow hats bobbing to the rhythm of the street. The rhythm of the block. The rhythm of the city.

There were tracking devices everywhere. They were on lampposts, they were in stores, they were on cars and trucks and vans and motorcycles. They were even installed into the tongue of shoes before being sold, as well as into the folded creases of sewn together pockets of jackets and dress shirts. Even through fabric, they could see everything. The last person who tried to remove a tracking device from a pair of socks wound up with one in her ear. She doesn't leave the house now.