My Cardboard Balcony

The Air Is Hard To Breathe by Belinda Roddie The air is hard to breathe, so I remain within my office with the windows shut, the sunset orange by the window pane, subdued by haze, descending ash, and soot. I read and write and still procrastinate on grading stories that my students penned. I keep on thinking that it's Saturday, when, in truth, the week hasn't reached its end, and schools are merely closed due to the flames sending up toxic plumes we can't inhale and blocking the view of the hills and bay mere miles away from me. The air is stale, but it will suit me fine within this space I've built for myself in this safer place.

Look at all the corporate lobbyists, milling about the foyer, drinking bad wine and wearing ill-fitted and poorly tailored suits. That one sot over there is on his fifth glass, and the top button of his jacket wants to be free and fly into the horizon due to his ever expanding gut. In the meantime, I do well in a three piece, and I'm not even representing any particular client - I'm just enjoying the opportunity to observe the most pandering of pseudo-entrepreneurial souls.