Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

While you are away, I go out
into the sunless morning.
The door that closes behind me
closes forever.  The house is an echo
and the silent windows reflect
only the vacant, untended garden.
I have nowhere to go
but I get into the car and drive.

All the signs are stop signs.
People in the village stop, stare
as I pass, seeing only half of me.

By Ron. Lavalette

Ron. Lavalette is a poet living in the very northeastern corner of Vermont. From his front porch, he could easily throw a stone into Canada but has learned, from bitter experience with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, that doing so is considered a hostile action. He has been widely published and anthologized in both print and pixel forms.  A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at Eggs Over Tokyo. Like most folks with an abundance of time on their hands, Ron. blogs; and because he likes to keep things eggish, he calls his blog Scrambled, Not Fried. He's not quite dead yet. His email address: