Between Flags
It’s Tuesday.
_Just_ Tuesday.
No broken plane.
No shuttle math.
No wet track
glistening under
a grey Montreal sky.
No engines tearing the air open
and making everybody grin like idiots.
No grandstands.
No checkered flag.
Just the regular Tuesday machinery:
laptop,
inbox,
meetings,
laundry,
the small negotiations
required to keep
a week moving.
Normal Tuesday,
allegedly.
Except F1
is still humming
somewhere behind me.
Not loud anymore.
More like the little
high-frequency whine
your body remembers
after the real noise
has already stopped.
Montreal behind us.
Chicago ahead.
July Fourth
starting to take shape
on the calendar.
Cards at Cubs.
Wrigley.
Summer baseball in a city
that knows how to dress for it.
Little plans becoming reservations.
Reservations becoming countdowns.
Me pretending
this is normal behavior
for a grown man
with a job.
Then the weekend
still sitting there too,
yucky
in ways I don’t need
to relitigate before lunch.
And Georgia Tech
out of the College World Series
after Oklahoma
did what Oklahoma
apparently woke up and chose to do.
Fuck Oklahoma.
There.
That helped.
Thursday is still in the mix too.
That fabulous evening
not asking for
a full recap,
just leaving a little warmth behind the ribs,
and making Tuesday
less convincing
in its attempt
to act ordinary.
Because that’s the problem today.
Or maybe the best part.
Nothing special
is happening.
No crisis.
No race.
No big reveal.
Just one day
in the middle
of other days.
One flag behind us.
Another one
waiting in Chicago.
And you,
somehow,
in every square
on the calendar
between them.
Not loudly.
Not urgently.
Just there.
Still humming.
Still impossible
to get off my mind.
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