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Love Poem for a Drunk

At the hospital bus stop.
Your breath smelled like fruitcake
—drunks and fruitcakes are soaked
in similar flavours.
'I am a poet,' you said
'that's what I do. I'll tell you a poem.'
The lines poured out
in bizarre lucidity
like a speaking baby.
A passerby said 'Are you alright?'
'Yes,' I said, 'he's just telling me a poem.'
And she blinked.
And walked on.