The Vanishing Children - Poem by Robert Rorabeck
All over the yard, I’ve placed my
Guns in the snow:
My mother is drying the laundry in the clustering
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.
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