Peter Chapman Poetry


who'd know how to take food
from a machine like that
and what could she tell us?

on a hot day of driving fast
i left the highway
and gave myself a designated rest

i saw her there, bending
to a proper crouch, getting a snack
from the machine's low tray, knees the knobs of legs
in yellow shorts coming toward me now,
long hair bouncing past

she chose then pulled, staying low,
leaving the next choice to you

i peed a bliss of coffee
then wandered off to the map displays
and found her with her dog on the grass,
leashed to its wagging, happy ass
spread low to have a pee,
full of opportunity