Peter Chapman Poetry


we're at the lake, sister, mom and i
where everything is green
and the water keeps you cool

sister's friends had shared her birthday
and in the dimming light we discussed Irene
who wanted to come but phoned and talked
about her sad marriage to a minister
who took drugs, how bad it was

her first husband was a minister too,
and this is where the chickens came in,
when mom asked could i guess what afflicted him?
little boys i said, then poultry, as mom,
safely to the kitchen now,
could be heard keeping back a laugh,
the reflex for the poor wife's tears
put another way, to a glass of water,
a blessed day