You grabbed me by the hair and led me out behind the woodshed. In the morning, you took in my purple eye, my lacerated arms, and my winced movement, and asked what had happened to me.

Your storm rolled in last night and caught me in its vortex. In the morning, you took in the downed tree limbs, the upturned picnic table, and the broken glass, and started playing in the standing water.

Your shadow threw a party last night and kept me up until 2 am. In the morning, you took in my slow walk to the shower, my two aspirins, and my dry toast, and asked if I wanted to go for a run.

No, I don’t want to put on my Nikes right now, no, I don’t want to splash in the puddles with you, and yes, I do know what happened to me.