My Cardboard Balcony

Foreclosure by Belinda Roddie This house is the last true home where I stayed before the tyrant walked in with a stick and summoned me away. His crown sat lopsided on his broken head; no jewels, but he claimed it was made of gold. I can count the number of bricks that hadn't cracked under the strain of the elements on one hand - with three fingers. Jealous of such a ramshackle haven, he cast me into the street corner, shoved shards of asphalt under my nails, and expected me to laugh through the pain. His authority was faded ink on a deed. This house is where I last sang to my wife before she left for a personal planet that was easier to fit in her pocket than my anxieties. When my job grew legs and ran away from me, she remembered that she already had two good ones to help her do the same. The tyrant wore a suit with his circlet. It was stained with mocha nightmares and ketchup that escaped the follicles of stale French fries. He kept his face buried in

Well, then, pretty lady. I guess I have to run into you again at this quaint little coffeehouse. I guess we'll have to both endure the boy in the beret beating on the bongos - like my alliteration there? Who knows if either of us are exactly that into poetry - I have mixed feelings myself. They make a good mocha here, so if you want, pretty lady, you can have a couple on me. It's entirely your call.