by Robert Vaughan

Holidays are hard:

I'm going to take

a walk, escape the

silence of this house


I was never home,

home on the range

hospital corners are still

“beats me?”


Invisible, unlike drift wood

tossed ashore, under pewter

skies, elephantine clouds

where seldom is heard

an encouraging word


no slow cookpot solutions

while you're no longer talking

and I'm no longer hearing

there's nothing cooking here


There's something I forgot