Two games on,
    no favorites in the fight—
    just background lightning

    for a night we’re stealing anyway.

You asked, “come watch MNF with me?”
                  (“Only in spirit”)

So we thread the hours,
   little lights between us,
   letting the plays run…

   while our words do the real work.

Tomorrow the brackets bloom,
         first pitch sitting
         on the edge of Tuesday,
         but tonight is simpler:

         hold the line,
         keep the hum,
         be the voice the room leans toward.

Fourteen nights—
         tonight is first.

Not a countdown,
    a layup of evenings:
               this one,
          then the next,
      each small bridge
  sturdy enough for two.

I don’t need a winner,
  only your texts arriving

  like streetlights on green.

When the booth talks overtime,
     we can smile and let them—

     we were here for extra anyway.

I’ll keep the volume low,
     keep our window open,
     let the future smell like October

     and the infield after rain.

Two weeks to the hug.

Tonight, first.

Tomorrow, baseball.

Between the whistles,
             find me—

        I’m right where the day softens,
               counting in your cadence,
                     carrying us across
              one quiet night at a time.