This Mess

I stubbed my toe on a London bus;
it stood in the doorway, just under us.

And by the door a bright Tonka truck
lay just where an unsuspecting limb got stuck.

And in the night a train might stray
far from its tracks into my way;

and you, dear you, might show up right
when I would rather turn in for the night

yet love is seldom a smooth affair,
and ground is better than ideal air.

True, I’d prefer to not stub my toes,
but love must bleed; that’s the way it goes.

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