Peter Chapman Poetry


we are locking ourselves out of anything lacking profit
and against bad motive
have you noticed?

homes on this street are silent, presenting
a bland purse of the rich in Glumville

the rain doesn't help

the movie theater has closed, no notice of course,
open today, gone tomorrow, litter against the dark
steel doors whose handles have been removed

so i unhitch myself and splash a long stream
of affronted moviegoer piss against the death of art

in the bookstore, well-lit, purring with commerce
i take the last chair and read poems by a Pulitizer winner
who's judging my application for a Maine island residency

my head hurts

i place chilled fingers, author unknown,
against my temples, working the tips in slowly,
getting the feature to start, a favorite it looks like,

the beam of the usher's light passes over my damp shoes
and i gather down for the long kiss