Puck drops in ten.

Beer untouched,
     condensation forming,
     time melting down the side

     like an hourglass made of… glass?

Eyes fixed on the ice— (and the court)
     but watching the door,
     peripheral vision on high alert…

     ears tuned to that laugh,
                    that step,
     the pause in the doorway—

     you, entering stage left.

Stars vs Oilers on the main screen,
      Knicks vs Pacers background noise,

      but the real matchup?

Me vs the clock.
Me vs the empty stool beside me.
Me vs the beat my heart keeps skipping…

Every time the door opens,
Every time it's _not_ you.

Game’s starting.
Clock’s ticking.

Come tilt this night
     into motion,
     flip the score from

     waiting to winning—

Walk in,
     claim your seat,
     flash that smile,
     and stop this heart…

     that's been skating circles around the moment until you arrive.