My Cardboard Balcony

Playground In A Storm by Belinda Roddie Sweetheart, you left the street marked with candies drawn out in rainbow chalk. I can't eat the sweets, but the smell of rain on concrete is nice enough, at least. This was where, I swear, my childhood both began and ended. Over there, the cold steel merry-go-round, faceless, no golden horse manes. I played trains and planes and cried when I realized I couldn't actually fly.

“Yes, hi,” I said into the phone. “I’d like two large pepperoni pizzas with extra cheese and white cream sauce…” “Can I get black olives on my pizza?” Laura piped up. “Yeah, sure, babe,” I said with a smile before returning to the receiver. “And black olives on one of them.” “You’re marvelous,” Laura said once I finished the call, pecking me on the lips before she returned to her blood-and-gore video game.