Where do accidents go to wait?
Is there a mishaps’ union hall
where they report for time and date,
warm the bench until the call?
Do they tensely scan the classifieds,
hope for an accidental spot,
a little freelance on the side
to fix the roof and stir the pot?
And how do bulls in china shops
get in? Are there finishing schools, charm
academies with durable props,
where blue-rinsed, punctilious marms
prepare the rusticated beeves
to leave their clover and sighing grass
for the small beer of collar and sleeves,
life among the tinkling glass?
And what of the elephants in the rooms,
the ones we never talk about?
Aren't the dirt and noxious fumes
enough to make us throw them out?
Or do we need our faithful friends,
tolerant enough to stand and be
unnoticed as we all pretend
we don’t smell what we don’t see?
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