Recent Poems by Chris George

My Beautiful Launderetta

I ogle you in the dryer's fisheye lens
as your purple bra, slip, panties rotate:
your unders cycling starkers before me.

My palate's parched; I suck on a water.
Not an extra pound of fat on your bones
(although the dryer's lens could deceive).

I think, "Beautiful Launderetta, please be
with me tonight! How we'll fit snug together
in all our parts!" But minutes run down,

we have our laundry to retrieve and fold,
and lovingly pack away. Regrettably, I know
we've got different places to rest tonight.

Christopher T. George

My Uncle in a Tintype

To Douglas Matchett, 1915-2007

In the murky gray image,
he's like a little corporal,
dark epaulets on button-up

kiddie coat, white socks, sandals
-- obviously a cold day
on New Brighton beach

near a hundred years ago.
The image is bubbled, paper back
rusted, his Mummy's penciled

note barely legible, written
to Daddy away in the army:
"What do you think of this

taken on New Brighton sands
on Saturday?" -- Douglas who
almost scored a century.

Christopher T. George