Peter Chapman Poetry

The Inexpressible Joy

His car is sunbaked, as likely to crack
as the pods and findings along the dash,
tarns for a potion all its own.

He has feathers too and shells
whose sand sifts through the shabby seats
under the mats, over the road in places.

And pretty stones, with milky lustres and scrags.

His boat is patched and taped,
a wherry of tales where he's drug them in.

A far and whispy sort is our maudit
in his vandal morte,
fitting fine to the dime in the ocean
each of us gets to toss.