Garlic Poem by Douglas Scotney

At a concert, a woman I didn't know
wearing real gardenia flowers between her breasts,
gave me some jam in a jar whose lid just reeked of garlic,
which had got into the jam,
which had to get the flick.

I kept the lid and placed it on the tank,
so that whenever I walk down the side,
as little a sniff as I need
confirms that garlic's worse than fags
and keeps me working on my creed
about how garlic can't be all it's cracked up to be
if you have to pick a flower off a gardenia tree.

P.S. That woman I didn't know:
I got the jam 'cause her friend didn't show.