Blue confetti in my head all morning—
       Will Smith found the go-ahead,
        Yamamoto shut the final door
         like a man born for endings…

                       complete in 2,
                       complete in 6,
  3 clean in relief for the clincher.

MVP by miles and
    both feet off the ground.

Back-to-back banners flutter,
     and I save a corner of the sky
                 for your Cardinals.

     There’s room up there. I checked.

Elsewhere, your Jackets stumbled in Raleigh,
         8–1 and nursing everything at once.

Bye-week becomes a whispered prescription:
                                      ice,
                                     tape,
                                    sleep,
                                 *please*.

It’s Sunday,
     the kind that tries to be ordinary.

Steelers at noon,
         Falcons alongside—
               two screens,
                 one stool,
        me nodding at both
and missing only one thing.

I keep sending you my voice
  until it needs intermissions,
  little monologues with their own halftime show.

You answer with that quiet smile
    I can hear through a screen—

    the one that fixes my posture.

It’s been three days
     that have felt like a week,
     and the only math I trust is this:

     four to go.

Back-to-back, then back to you—
     that’s the parade route I’m marching,
     pockets full of small fireworks,

     a hug already rehearsed in my arms.

I wish we’d shared that dog-pile,
                   the champagne,
the late-night street that sings—

But I can hold it until I’m there,
           let the city calm down,
   keep one last burst of glitter
                    for your hair.

Soon.

Let the hours run out of room,
    let the door learn our names again—
    let me prove the headline
    I’ve been carrying all day…

    back-to-back, back to you.