Peter Chapman Poetry


after Max

We go placidly, after all, amid the heat and sand
back to our motel, torn rug, stained tub, bed like an aircraft carrier.

The iced cocktails, the peacock feathers. Vase of pink carnations.

The window, draped, conceals us, speaking our truth quietly and clearly,
knowing the dull and ignorant, long in these rooms, too have their story.

There are, we realize, greater and lesser lives.
We make love bunching the gritty sheets, having the hour survive.

The world outside 112, no one need tell us, is full of trickery.
Life is tense with ideals, heroic and nasty.
The Indians running this joint are kind and give us ice smiling.

We are, undoubtedly, being ourselves. The afternoon's affection is not feigned,
neither your smile for my feathers, which I've crossed behind the mirror
nor my amusement at our care with things.

Love is as perennial as the yellow lawns.

Our room is peaceful and we are gentle with ourselves,
the world unfolding, like bedding, towels, our arms, as it should.

Lighting candles we know, with its sham and humid walls
our old motel is worth the rupees.

We need to have the tub cleaned.