Peter Chapman Poetry


Looking now at geese asleep on ice out the window,
appropriating death in the blank morning coldness

I move back into the elegance of these rooms, a season I didn't count on.

I discovered my mother in the supermarket yesterday,
pushing her cart in fleece pants and jacket, a blue ball cap on her blondy head,
envy of the beauty shop, surprising her gently;
she turned and looked up at me, tipping the old visor saying

Do you think I need a permanent?

I grew up sailing out the river in big laughs high school,
our small boats lifting on air and breeze, blowing up our early thing.

What do you want? What can I get you?

Start with air, always. Boats are good.
Let me get your mother to smile up at you, give you her car,
laugh just seeing you, smiling, sailing up the mischief.