Travel
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