Travel the world, they say.

Fifteen hours on a plane

to visit dusty shops and pricey cafes.

Really, with my apnea?

You can see it all, anyway,

on your 50-inch screen

with Rick Steves explaining

while you eat a sandwich,

drink a beer, and sleep late

in your own soft bed.

That’s retirement!

I love the old house way across town

close to dad’s childhood home

and couldn’t care less about some church or castle

in an historical war zone

where faded-photo great great grandpa lived.

I should cherish that stranger because

he bedded an equally forgotten female?

I mean, maybe they were fine, maybe they were racist,

weren’t most back then?

Some shred of messy DNA

don’t mean a thing,

it don’t swing

in my mind.

Thanks, though, for passing it down.

I’ve got more in common with an Iowa cornfield

than any old French vineyard.

Voltaire, as close to France as I need to get,

suggested we tend our own gardens.

I’m growing some tasty tomatoes in mine

and only have so much time

to enjoy home sweet home,

just like Dorothy.



Chris Callard


Chris Callard lives in Long Beach, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Cadence Collective, One Sentence Poems. His short fiction in Gemini Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, A Story in 100 Words, and ZZyZxWriterZ. He has had work nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions

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