Do you want a murray mint? I ask.

Not the best place, the beach, at night

in November, bracing you call it; wind

smattered with rain, as deep in my pocket

my fingers recover one of last summer's

half-melted sweets. Further down the shore

 

you tell me what you thought I'd said.

Do you want to marry me? How I continued,

It might be a bit sticky, and then,

I'm not selling this to you am I? as I fudged

in my jacket for the something I held out

and pressed into your palm.

 

 

from Just Our Luck (The Garlic Press 2008)

 

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