My Cardboard Balcony

This Week Won't Die by Belinda Roddie Wednesday's when I get the blues and stitch up my sighs in a burlap sack. I grab something sweet to eat, head to the abandoned railroad tracks, and dip my toes into rain puddles after stripping off my war veteran shoes. Thursday's not much better, so Wednesday will do. I'll savor the flavor of a meager morning, then survive the afternoon after some breathing exercises. After sorrow, it's the panic I have to deal with, blow by blow, attack by attack, and it's always so fucking sharp. I haul my ass back home when the evening's too old. When it's young, I draw circles in my head, like a halo to make me holy for once in my life, for once in my life, for once in my goddamn life.

There was no real scientific evidence to support any of the doctor's claims. Still, he prattled on and on about his conspiracy theories and confusing mathematical prophecies "revelations," all while both he and his guests drank glass after glass of red wine. As the copious amount of booze continually flowered from new bottle after new bottle, the volume of the doctor's voice grew louder, and his balance was increasingly becoming unsteady. Still, somehow, the words came out of his mouth without a single slue, and the nonsense, albeit at a slower pace, continued practically unabated.