Tuesday finally cleared its throat
          and gave us a clean road.

No maelstrom.

No shoulder prayers
   blinking through sheets of rain.

No Nero side quest
   involving straps,
                mud,
            weather,
        and a truck

        that should’ve known better.

Just sky,
     pavement,
     and enough miles
     to let the day stretch out

     without trying to drown anybody.

We stopped early
   at Shaggys On The Rez,
   which is exactly the kind of name
   a floating restaurant
   on a Mississippi reservoir

   should be allowed to have.

Worked there awhile,
       water beside us,
             laptop open.

Orca watching the room
     like she’d discovered
     a new branch office of the kingdom

     and was deciding where to put the flags.

By early evening
   we’d rolled on to Jackson
   and The Pig and the Pint,

   another dog-friendly place
   that took one look at her
   and understood there was no point

   pretending ownership was still under review.

She had the patio,
    she had the people.

She had the little imperial certainty
        of a puppy who keeps learning
                  the world has doors
                and most of them open.

The thread with you
    moved slower in the afternoon.

Not gone,
    just carrying more weight
    than a text box can politely hold.

So I didn’t ask the quiet
         to put on a show.

I just sent all I had.

The useful little reports
    a person can send
    when he can’t reach across
    and fix the part

    he wishes he could touch.

Then night settled in,
     and the thread settled with it,
     and Mississippi kept being Mississippi

     outside the glass.

Now it’s Wednesday.

The bags are almost bags again.

The dog gear
    has reproduced overnight
    in the mysterious way dog gear does.

Orca’s ready
       in the way Orca’s always ready,
       emotionally prepared for everything

       except the next thing that actually happens.

And Nero’s pointed east.

Soon enough,
     I’ll pack the rest
     of our moving circus,
     get the wheels under us,
     and let Nero eat the miles

     until Buckhead appears in the windshield
     like something the map’s been saving for last.

This morning,
     I left the question
     where questions belong sometimes:

     in my own voice, with room around it.

No calendar dressed up
       like a contract.

Just the road home,
     and a sentence…

     light enough to leave room
     for whatever kind of day
     you’re actually having.

The maybe
    is still alive
    if nobody squeezes it too hard.

So we’ll drive.

Shaggys behind us.

The Pig behind us.

Mississippi behind us.

Nero doing Nero things
     between here

     and the first clean glimpse of Atlanta.

And somewhere ahead,
       not promised,
            claimed,
            pressed into becoming anything
            before it’s ready,

            one small maybe…

            riding quietly in the passenger seat
            all the way home.