He’s coming for me now, and he’s seeking my hide. His boots thresh the forsythia. His moody threats taunt and tempt. But he cheated first–deserved what happened. That’s my only defense. He’s closing on me now, because I’ve pricked his pride. He thought he was so slick, counting to a hundred by tens. Wouldn’t you have grabbed the garden hose, when he had you hemmed in? He’s coming for me now. It’s not my pride he’ll prick. That drip, dripping from his shirt pulverizes courage, and conviction drains away as I’m gathering my skirt. He’s waiting for me now. He thinks speed is on his side. But I’m poised for…