My Cardboard Balcony

Arbor Day by Belinda Roddie What caused the traffic jam? A tree was on fire.

Instantly Maturing Infant by Belinda Roddie The cradles are empty, and I don't hear the crying anymore. They grew up fast - way too fast. Taller than me in a few months. Speaking longer sentences. Forging new pathways. Two-year-olds becoming CEOs. Toddlers winning Nobel Peace Prizes. I'm not sure what they're putting in baby food these days, but hey, as long as they're better at running the country than all the old fogies who may as well be constrained to cribs, anyway, wailing and eager for both a nappie and a bottle of something stronger than milk.

Pastry Parlor by Belinda Roddie Talking muffins aren't special. I've loitered with loquacious lemon loaves.

Flutes by Belinda Roddie Let me take you on a whirlwind ride of woodwinds, where reeds sway in both marshes and mouths, and pipes blend in with the pipes of those who play the pipes. Pipe down, the jig is up, but the jig is also about to begin. Kick your legs high, but not high enough for the skies - that's the Lord's territory, and he prefers to tap dance alone, along the edges of volcanoes and the peaks of mountains. Instead, let's bend the knees to oboes and clarinets, and once the flutes start playing, that's when we can fall in love.

The Reel by Belinda Roddie She didn't recognize the music, but she recognized the dance.

How To Handle A Gadfly by Belinda Roddie Dear Mrs. Johnson-Smith-Raymond- Hyde-Jones-Reynolds-Maguire-Roth (and I assume your daughter's first name is Karen, just like yours, for the sake of family attitude): The board of supervisors has instructed me not to review your complaint, but instead to use it as toilet paper in the men's washroom. I presume you'll desire to refile it, at which point, the women's washroom will have spare tissue as well. And don't forget, we have a unisex restroom, lest you decide that your words of bitchiness somehow linger in our humble little town, where we have to deal with too many assholes like you on a daily basis. And no, you may not see a manager.

Maps by Belinda Roddie The X marks the spot where she buried her wife.