Four games, one thread—
       Dodgers rolling, (back in 1st)
      Braves streaking, (4 in a row)
    while Rangers slid, (14-2. fuck)
    their backup third baseman
    tossing Toronto batting practice,
                     garbage innings,
                        garbage luck.
    Cardinals caught the Yanks again— (12-8 loss)
    just fuck the Yankees, seriously.

Allergies at the plate,
     took you out of the lineup—
     drifting in and out,

     benadryl-soft and unreachable.

So I sent box scores anyway,
              needed or not— (probably not)

   just to keep a line humming between us.

Irby’s is my scoreboard,
       where I watch the innings unfold
       and imagine you breathing easier,
       sun warming your face

       even if I can’t see it.

Late text, sweet win—
     your nighttime rhythm,
        keeping me smiling
    long past when my eyes
could hold themselves open.

You closed it out perfectly,
    softest goodnight I’ve heard in weeks.

The Collage still drying,
    “Good Morning, Mari” voice memo,
    ten minutes to spare— (*whew*)
    sent before first pitch today,
    proof I’m learning

    to keep up with Buckhead hours.

Rally caps & runny noses,
      that’s our box score for the weekend.

And if you can smile today—
        with or without me,
 beneath this Buckhead sun—

 I’ll call *that* the best kind of win.