Peter Chapman Poetry


As I feared
the broken bottle bit my hand

My customers saw the ooze of blood
through gauze, so near their fun, but glass

wasn't done with me, for earlier a wicked chip
bounced from the floor to my eye
then worked its way (as I made the drinks)
through my face to my throat
as if to say
I'm in your castle, across the moat

not transparent so you'd know
but a worry stalked by gravest woe

saying, in my cool head

let this try your way to heal,
your need to know the things you dread