My voice is gone— (again)
   not from The Sick this time,
   but from eighteen innings
   screaming at a TV screen…

   and a prayer for mercy.

We lived through the long middle,
   ten scoreless fucking frames…
   my IPAs learned to pace themselves,

   and hope learned to whisper.

Bless you, Freeman,
      for ending two cities’ insomnia.

And Ohtani?
    two launched into October
    and on base nine times,
    like someone dared physics

    to keep saying yes.

You were with me pitch for pitch—
           your couch grandstand,
       Coal appointed head usher,
                   me at Oscar’s,
         both rooms turning blue

       every time the count went full.

By the eighteenth
   I wanted only “over,”
   because “wheels up” had a boarding time—

   because your tomorrow had my name on it.

Ava dropped me at the train,
    I cleared the little rituals,
    and now I’m about to be
    somewhere over middle America,

    counting clouds like outs.

Hug math:
    three to four hours to Sylvan,

    then your nap decides the clock.

I can wait for “right,”
  even if everything in me

  isn’t built for waiting.

We’ll have the next two together—
      every pitch, every glance,
      with commercials long enough
      for a shoulder,
          a smile,
          a kiss…

          that makes the room forget a score. (almost)

If my voice won’t carry,
   I’ll give you the quiet version,
         the one that lands nearer…
                      mouth-to-ear,
                    breath-to-skin,

         the small thunder you call mine.

Because this is how we play it—
         extra innings, always,
             the long way home,

         refusing to leave the lighted field
         while there’s still anything left to feel.

Wheels up now…
       and then down,
           then you,
           then the kind of journey’s end

           that finally lets the night exhale.