Peter Chapman Poetry

Costa Rica

I went to Costa Rica to surf, but I didn't know how, and I didn't care to learn.

I went to Costa Rica to drink the coffee.  It was good and cheap.

I stayed up all night in a hotel in Quepos.  The light was orange.  The girls
laughed in the halls.

Costa Rica, Rica Costa.  I drank the water, I lost my pasta.

In Tamarindo, a fortune teller with a little dog said I had odd good luck.

Over the border bullets smacked the dry hills.  I drank the coffee. 

The crucifixes on the gatehouse to the cemetery were upside down. 

The light was a burnt orange.  Girls laughed, chased by the boys. 

I followed a friend down here.  She left America.  We argued about the news.
She would have basked in our new president; now I could tell she didn't really care.

In Costa Rica this made me feel my old feelings, why am I here, what was fair.

Like I told Mr. Jamieson, his neck bent, his hot wife, the smile like gin, me
home from college,
I couldn't explain my presence there.