My Cardboard Balcony

Lots of Pockets by Belinda Roddie Here is a pack of cigarettes, and here is a dead lighter. This lottery ticket won me two dollars, and this one won me nothing. I wish these pockets were dusted with gold, lined with words of wisdom replacing the lint. Instead, there is mostly empty space. And heartache. And anger. And peace.

Was she supposed to be grateful, after all this time? Was she meant to thank him for the efforts he had made? The efforts, namely, to abandon her for the sake of bringing food to the table? What was an extra ham or gallon of ice cream compared to his holding her at night when she cried herself to sleep? Or his smile from behind a newspaper? Or the roughness of his hands as he caressed her cheeks on their wedding night?