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Alfie’s Fish and Chips with Chicken

An old man’s ears stand out like wind cups.
His scaley hands finger a garlic clove
large as a walnut.
The white clove is thoughtfully husked,
Sliced again and again on the round-most,
placed on the table.
Fresh garlic and frying fish
Purple the air like a new fart.
Yellow folded newspapers thicken his breast pocket.
A blond young woman outside brushes her hair
In the window reflection smiling to herself.
The man looks away quickly
Smiling like a small boy
Who just discovered his fly open.
He grips two breasts of chicken,
rubs and scrapes the crust.
Crumbles fall on the brown formica.
Grease polishes his fingers.
The old man becomes a sun tanned
Summer boy who subdues a live fish
He just caught cold by hand.
He carefully places the breasts
Into the basket of chips.
He sweeps crumbs with his napkin
Into a brown crust around the salt shaker.
He wipes his hands on fresh napkins,
Tears bits of white flesh, rubs them
against sliced garlic, chews them
vigorously as tobacco.
Grease around his lips,
He fingers a turquoise ring
Wrapped on the palmside with adhesive tape.
He carefully doesn’t spill his coffee.

—
C. S. Merrill has been a poet, author, teacher, and librarian for many years in New Mexico. This is one of her early poems. UNM Press has published two of Merrill’s books: Weekends with O’Keeffe and O’Keeffe: Days in a Life about her seven years working with Georgia O’Keeffe.

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