I open the front door on a modest suburban morning and there you are, crossing the threshold between lush vernal bacchanalia and the searing glare of daily grit.
It’s the same old story: last night you slid into your usual watering hole, met some buddies, the drinks got out of hand, the embraces too familiar.
Next thing you know, you wake up in a puddle, underwear on backwards. You’ve lost your shoes. Reawakened memories of your misdeeds inch along in segments.
There’s a new tattoo.
Far from the home field, you slink back for all to see, woozy head kept low.
Praying you don’t run foul the birds of retribution.