How it Begins

Her breath is rank with booze,
she fumbles a carnation
into his hand, murmurs
I've always fancied you.
A flurry of too-sweet scent
catches in his throat;
she whirls and titters
at someone else's joke.

Padraig O'Morain

If you've any comments on this poem, Padraig O'Morain would be pleased to hear from you.