My Cardboard Balcony

Urban Sprawl by Belinda Roddie Kept a dirty hacky sack in the pocket of my jeans. Caught a bus to Smoke Town, Smog City, purple and greens in every window, blacks and grays when you step outside. Managed to sneak a stale hot dog out of a tiny deli on the street corner and ignored the howls of an actual dog, and the snarls of his equally canine-like owner. One had fur, one wore a stained apron, and both were foaming at the mouth. Got the idea to scale the local school and sit on the roof where I could watch the kids playing basketball. Gnawed on that dry pork like it was the only thing keeping me alive. Pulled out that hacky sack and let it bounce once on my knee before it dropped to pavement below, narrowly missing an old lady in a wheelchair as she pushed herself into oncoming traffic and miraculously survived.

Every day around one thirty, the group would convene at the elm tree outside the library, drinking lemonade out of glass bottles and tossing a beat up, purple frisbee around. One of the members had a dog - a little old Corgi that still had some stamina - and it would yap at the flying disc, trying in vain to jump up and catch it in its yellow teeth. I walked by the teenagers once I had gotten a couple of books, and one of them waved at me, though I wasn't quite sure why.