Peter Chapman Poetry

How Deep Things Are

to the woman in the motorized wheelchair walking her beagle

How deep things are, people need to know
as if you knew or they thought so.

I'm usually happy but occasionally sad,
(a particle of speech for which i'm glad)
you tell them that, they could get mad.

Bring me empty (so much is full),
an empty town, a no-nuts bull.

They want to see behind the veil (of lust)
so hide your progress, dust your trail.

Keep on your lips, as you go to talk,
a not quite "O" of boastful thought,
suppressed howls, chapped quips;

be the pet taking its owner far,
little pads in step with your swinging tongue,
nothing wrong can't be undone.