Crawl of Shame

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.

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