Late last night
I heard your windows slam
The storm bolts flew
Right off your porch.
I called your mother
She was tired and quiet
And far away
She had gone up north.
To get away from
The Midwest thick
To catch up on her reading
And to see her brothers
She remarked on your spirits
They were low when she left.
In the morning
You were on your steps
You had a black eye
And a bloody mouth
I called your father
He was on a trail
A winding snail
He had gone down south
With the Trappist monks
On a peace retreat
They would pray every day
From the book of Palms
He would come back home
A different man