World Cup anticipation
      isn’t a quiet condition.

It sits in the chest
   like a countdown
   pretending to be a reasonable way

   to spend a Sunday.

So Orca and I
   did what we could
   with the morning:

              Yeppa,
         F1 Belgium,

   something loud enough
   to borrow the edge off the wait.

Amazing start.

Then,
     eventually,
     the kind of ending that makes a person
     check the lap counter for evidence

     that time is still legal.

Kimi again, as usual.

Some good midfield drama,
                at least,
    which is what we say
          when the front

    has stopped negotiating with entertainment.

Not much thread
    this morning,
    but that was no scandal.

You aren’t much
    of an early riser,
    and the sun doesn’t get extra credit
                         for being first.

King Ron, Kitty Mike, and Apex
     kept the group chat alive,
     doing their part
     to make the wait less dignified,

     which is usually the correct amount.

After the race,
      Orca and I
      made our way to Irby’s…

  for much-needed patio time.

Gabe’s kiddos were there.

Orca did _not_ approve.

Not in a cruel way,
           exactly.

More in the way
     a small queen
     might notice several new claimants
     to the attention throne

     and begin quietly reviewing the succession laws.

I think children
  may currently be her rivals.

So,
   as Irby’s started filling in,
   I took her home for a nap…

   because even suspicion requires rest.

Then I came back,
     grabbed our corner,
     pulled a few extra seats into the orbit,
     and even held a parking spot,

     just in case y’all decided to drive.

The plan was clean:

    if you came here,
    I could do the Irby’s parking shuffle,

    move Nero across the street
    to the spot with his name already on it,

    and leave you the easy landing.

That was the formation.

Or at least,
   that was the formation
         I had in my head.

Then the day changed circuits.

Piedmont Park became your watch party.

Irby’s became mine.

Not wrong,
    just different.

The kind of adjustment Sunday makes
    without asking whether the pit wall
                  has finished its math.

So the formation changed.

You at Piedmont.
Me at Irby’s.

Friends on the way,
        my corner still useful,
          seats still becoming
            a joyful afternoon.

Orca home,
     sleeping off
     her diplomatic failure
              with children.

The spot held,
    then not needed the way I pictured.

The wait,
    still very much the wait.

That’s the thing
       about a formation lap:

       it isn’t the race.

It’s just the slow roll
     before everything gets loud,
      all the little corrections,
           all the tires warming,
                    all the cars
            finding their places
before the lights finally go out.

Today’s doing that.

Not the grid I pictured,
       but still a grid.

Not the corner
    I thought I was saving for you,

    but still a corner
    pointed toward the same whistle.

You there.
Me here.

Sunday,
       rearranging us
       without quite separating us,
       lining up the whole bright mess…

       one adjustment at a time.