Bloody Mary first pitch—
       Rangers v. Blue Jays warmin' up,
       me pacing myself
       for a long quadruple-header… (plus the slate)
       won’t end ‘til Dodgers/Padres close the midnight innings.

Irby’s is _empty_,
       ghost town vibes,
       just four on the field:
            Tim cooking for no one,
            Mel managing the silence,
            China serving drinks to no one,
            Shai waiting tables that don’t exist.

Every so often
      a curious face pokes in,
               takes one look,
            and just… *bails*.
      (I forget my deodorant?)

Nothing really swings
        ‘til Braves at seven,
        when the crowd rounds the bases
        and the whole place comes alive.

Until then—
      your texts trickling in,
      keeping me from feeling
      like a fifth on this field…
             just enough to know
                 you’re relaxing,
                      recharging,

      holding your smile like a late scoreboard glow.

That’s the prayer I’m holdin' onto.