My Cardboard Balcony

I Can't See Colors by Belinda Roddie I can't see colors - all is black and white. I'm not a dog, but still, I cannot tell if you're wearing a blue shirt or a bright green one. It's all gray to me, a gray Hell of dull shades, dull hues, dull tints, dull shadows of lifeless grass, sunlight, even ketchup bottles. I can't even see red, which blows, because I'm sure the color red is much cooler than all the others. When I kiss my girlfriend, I don't see pink in her lips. I can't compliment her on the long list of nail polish that she applies. Still, it's an exciting, fun world, despite the flat lack of all color for me. Fancy that.

There's a certain patch where people sit, eating their lunches out of paper bags, farther away from most of the general populace in the park. The patch is worn down drastically - mostly dirt, very little grass, and all brown - and sometimes coats are laid out as a simple substitute to blankets and quilts And when night falls, the stars seem brightest from that specific spot, where the trees are spread out more evenly and the leaves don't block out the evening canvas.