Flight delayed—
       *thirty-five* extra minutes
       stacked on top of anticipation,
       every second a slow drip of anxiety,

       like waiting wasn’t already the hardest part.

Captain must’ve had someone he was hurryin' to see—
        made up almost every lost second
        streaking through the air lanes,
        in a sky sprint from DFW to ATL…

        pushing clouds aside to land well before the edge of sunset.

The bags, though?

Not so eager.

Draggin' feet,
  draggin' wheels—
    draggin' patience down carousel #8,
    one lonely red bag circling like a lost puppy,

    making every second stretch too long.

3-for-4 turned into 1-for-4
      while I was up there—
      one-by-one, like missed calls:
      Dodgers, Rangers, Cards all dropped the ball.

      But your Braves came through,
      at least somebody got the memo. (bonus for the 10-4 @ Fenway)

Checked in late at the Sylvan,
        Sun almost gone, clock glaring 7:30,
        the lights of Irby’s just waking up,

        calling me back to that French Dip & Tropicalia pint.

That first beer hits different—
     suds washing the stress clean,
     glass sweating in the humid air,
     familiar stool under a road-weary body,

     laptop glowing, a beacon saying: "I made it."

Now I’m here,
    catching my breath,
    ready to send back my first "WYA?"

    with proof-of-life photo evidence:
    beer, computer, familiar backdrop…

Finally, the slow stretch of that long awaited breath.

I’m _here_.

Better late than sober,
       finally back on Atlanta ground,
       bar humming with easy laughter,
       another chapter starting…

       with foam on my lip and you on the other end of the line.