It’s that familiar spot—
     suitcase packed,
     tucked quietly near my barstool,
     patiently counting down the minutes

     'til the airport calls my name.

Three baseball games
      will fill in the spaces:
           Dodgers,
           Rangers,
           Cards—
      a quiet lineup keeping me company
      as I keep an eye on that doorway,

      still holding out hope for a ninth-inning surprise.

Tonight, we’ll both catch
         Timberwolves vs Thunder—
         me from seat 8A,
         you, feet propped up at home,
         Coal by your side,

         screens syncing from ATL to DFW.

But right now,
    the clock’s ticking slower,
    each sip stretching
    as I nurse this Bloody,
    fingers tracing lazy circles on damp glass—

    wishing her footsteps would echo off Irby’s floorboards.

I know goodbyes aren’t your style—
  but I’m stubborn enough to hope
  for that quick grin,
      that quiet hug,
           soft brush of lips

  that turns an ordinary “see ya”
  into something worth remembering…

  worth holding onto until wheels touch down here again.

This is my last call.

Not just for another beer,
    but for one more chance
    to leave this city right—

    with her smile fresh in my memory,
         her touch lingering on my skin,
             smell of her hair in my nose,

    and the promise of “next time” already set in motion.