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