Morning clocks in—
           coffee,
            inbox…

        thin line that carries your hello
        into the room before the sun does.

Work will swarm today—
     Owls perched at the BNB,
     hot issues spread like blueprints,

     pens tapping like rain.

I’ll keep a corner of the table clear
               for the thought of you.

Afternoon brings screens—
         Dodgers back on,
  Brewers and Cubs later,
  Blues lacing up at the edge of my eye,

  TNF’s “meh” humming from the side screen.
  (We’ll watch anyway. It’s what we do.)

We stayed threaded through yesterday’s slate,
           not scores so much as touchstones:
               a nudge when momentum shifted,
         a smile I could hear when it didn’t.

You said: “maybe worth a visit next round…”
                                  Chicago?
                                  Detroit?
                                   Philly?

(Here’s to miracles for the right teams…
            just not against my Dodgers.)

Between calls I’ll count like a kid
        who knows the number by heart—
        four days ’til Buckhead,
        ’til the Irby’s stool remembers me,
        ’til Coal’s hello…

        ’til your shoulder teaches the air how to settle again.

I don’t ask the day to hurry—
  I just grease the rails,
  answer what needs answering,
  leave you a voice where morning finds it,
  make room for luck,

  and keep my yes within arm’s reach.

Four days ’til Finally—
     not a finish line,

     more like a door that already knows my name.

I’ll knock softly when I get there.

You’ll open like you do.

And everything loud will remember
        how to be quiet around us.