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.
