Poetry - Alfred Nicol

Worried She May Be The One by Alfred Nicol



A quiet afternoon. I’ll celebrate 

this last occasion of my loneliness.

Spread before me, it should last awhile,

like snow in April, weathering her smile

and her bright heat, becoming ever less

my own, my un-enchanting opiate,

my carpet magic won’t make fly around,

my dirty blanket frozen on the ground.


And why should I regret to see erased

a blankness that had covered everywhere?

Why should I linger at the threshold musing

backward? What have I to lose in losing

nothing, bareness conjured from thin air?

How could I want the emptiness replaced?




The Regular by Alfred Nicol



Under her green apron the baby shifts

its weight as she puts on a smile to greet 

the next in line. She jots the heiroglyphs

inside the boxes on the cup: 2 Sweet-

‘N-Lo with 1% and not too hot.

No interest in something from the case.

She takes the card and slides it through the slot.

Thank you, and another pleasant face

for Mr. Hamilton, a regular

in somber suit and tie, the funeral home

director. “Put this in your baby jar.”

She marks his single latté, extra foam,

as he pays up, leaving a tip. A ten.

And he’ll be back. He’s not like other men.