Peter Chapman Poetry


Looking now at geese asleep on ice out the window,
appropriating death in the cold dawn

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

I discovered my mother in the market yesterday,
pushing her cart in fleece pants and jacket,
a blue ball cap on her blondy head, envy of the beauty shop.

She turned and, looking up at me, lifting the hat, said

Do you think I need a permanent?

I grew up sailing out the river, our small boats lifting on air,
blowing up our early thing. The river out the market door, still right here.

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, the breeze just right

in the mischief.