The Vanishing Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck
The Vanishing Children
All over the yard, I’ve placed my
Guns in the snow:
My mother is drying the laundry in the clustering
Aloe,
And Alma is somewhere close to here,
Gossiping to conquistadors while the
Airplanes fly so low to listen;
And the television breaks the news, and the
Kidnappers don’t look so bad:
So soon it will be Christmas, which makes all of
The vanishing children very, very glad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/24/2024 5:24:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
