My Cardboard Balcony

I'm Real by Belinda Roddie I am sewn from the sinew threads of sunken canoes and the fibers of aged potatoes in an abandoned field that was once a fountain of youth. I am a quilt stitched onto old skin, patched and repatched over generations, until I was more scarecrow than human being. And yet, I watch those bastard crows circle the crops like their kingdom is under attack, when it is my world they are invading, the personal acre of my psychology tucked into a thatch of hay stuck on the left side of my remaining shards of brain. I am brass buttons and silver trim and rotten fruit tucked into sagging pockets. I am half-eaten away by the elements of both the tide and time. Somewhere, the nearby river flows again after the weight of a drought's tantrum has finally subsided, and when the flood surges, it will rip me from my wooden monolith and wash the scraps of artificiality that has been glued, taped, knotted, and sketched upon my flesh throughout thou

We could go to the movies and braid popcorn into our hair. The films will all be bad, anyway. We'll play hide and seek among the rows, if we're the only ones there. I'll crawl between your legs and search for unwrapped mints and forgotten gummy worms. Once the movie's over, we'll lurch into the parking lot with our arms latching us together like conjoined twins. As the stars come out, one by one, we'll find a more entertaining show than we did in that dark, cold theater.