David Chorlton- Three Poems

Fishing

 

. . . only one father, one spirit;

the heavy set man in a folding chair

fishing beside the park lagoon

has hooked a passer-by with his voice

and won’t let go:

if your family don’t believe

there’s nothing you can do, not

a thing . . . and he adjusts his cap,

the one with Marines

embroidered into it . . . he died

for us all . . . while the listener stands

and nods occasionally

with no intention of moving away

although the clouds could break

into a shower any moment . . . I pray

for them anyway . . . the water is ruffled

by the wind blowing in from the golf course

on the opposite bank and the line

hangs slack . . . most people

don’t believe, ninety-nine point

nine nine nine percent of all people

don’t believe . . . he tugs at the rod

but nothing tugs back . . . you got

your Muslims beheading Christian women

and your Chinese Communists

and . . . as raindrops begin falling

from the darkening sky neither

man moves for shelter . . . nothing

you can do . . .

 

 

 

Small Town Deputies

 

When you reach a small town

that becomes smaller

the closer you are to it

Sheriff’s deputies are watching.

After a long drive through the desert

it appears as a mirage

 

and the best bet for lunch

has a flying saucer

held up on a pole just taller

than the palm trees along the main strip.

Founded 1872

 

a sign says, and Population

1,950. The average temperature in July

is 109 degrees

 

but each air conditioned space

is so cold it’s a relief

to go out into the heat. The deputies

sit in their vehicles then

 

waiting for the seven inches

of rain that falls every year

to begin, but their windshields stay dry.

The only nightlife

 

is a bar, the shopping center

is a Dollar General store, and you’re just

one right turn away

from the nineteen-fifties.

The deputies hold their positions

 

at each intersection. You may think

they want your fines

while their true purpose

 

is to slow you down

to the pace of what surrounds them.

 

 

 

Chuparosa

 

The way ahead looks clear

as indicated by a trail

that slants a little to the left

and straightens as it climbs

until the sharp turn right

at which it disappears behind

a mesquite in bloom

leaving no indication of where

the story goes

 

after the backpack is deposited

and a plastic bottle

has been thrown down the slope

as far as the chuparosa

 

where it caught and came to rest

with sunlight filling it

all the way to the open mouth.

 

 

David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in Manchester, England, and lived for several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in 1978. Arizona’s landscapes and wildlife have become increasingly important to him and a significant part of his poetry. His Selected Poems from FutureCycle Press appeared in 2014. The shadow side of Vienna provides the core of The Taste of Fog, a work of fiction published by Rain Mountain Press.