My Cardboard Balcony

The Empty Jeep by Belinda Roddie The empty jeep had eyes and ears and lips so it could see me, hear me, and kiss me without consent, as I let worry slip across my shoulders as I braved debris and speed bumps to park at my dreary home. It seemed so weary, that automobile, and while I could rest my exhausted bones, that carcass of fiberglass and worn steel could never sleep, or dream, or wake refreshed, stretching its limbs to meet the light of day like warm fingers across its puckered flesh. No, vehicles must run until they're gray, until they cannot move another mile. How can I sympathize with jeeps, meanwhile?

Sometimes when I'm sitting here, minding my own business, tempted to whistle the blues - and I'm ignoring the orange face on TV and the other horrendous news - my brain comes up with: "Hey, remember that time when you put a picture up of Grumpy Cat the day she died and played audio of, 'Amazing Grace,' performed on the bagpipes in the background as a tribute to her?" ...Yeah, that was pretty great.