Peter Chapman Poetry


this parking lot's a verite, like windups in the cameraman's head
and there's the roly kid with bad skin, from the bus i took up north that time

me thinking the film's cleared up his face, his pants are looser,
the old belt yanked into lost fat, khakis looming up,
he's gathering carts, stopping to help a lady load her trunk,
taking another lady's cart back

cars coming going into and from the white-lined spaces
on the cracked hot lot, how-do madam, help you with that?