There were bicycles everywhere. All of them Bianchi. You and I were arguing. Then fighting. I was losing. I'd been trying to interfere, as always, and you were steadfast. Then there was the milk. You threw the bag at me, and walked away, finished. I threw it to the floor, and stomped on it. The heel of my Mary Jane punctured the plastic. I dashed downstairs, and headed outside.
Gallons upon gallons of milk poured out over the hardwood, flooding the floor. It flowed down the stairs, in a wave of frothy white. I slammed the door behind me.
I spotted an old station wagon, with the back hatch open. I climbed in, and crouched down into the fetal position. It's a good thing I'm here to drive you home, you said. Turning around from the front seat, you reached to touch my face.
Seems there are two of you. And only one of me. Is it any wonder I'm so exhausted.
If you are falling, I'll put out my hands
If you feel bitter, I will understand
I love you - I am the milkman of human kindness
I will leave an extra pint