Made it to Friday intact—
     yesterday all work and football,

     today packed so tight I won’t breathe ’til five.

After five, though—
      there’s a problem:

               I’m here.
               You aren’t.

We talked so much about pizza
   I don’t have a choice today.

Call it a game plan—
     dough thawing like patience,
     oven preheating like a countdown,
     mozzarella stretching the minutes,

     coins of pepperoni doing their slow-clock spin.

Baseball’s back on every screen—
      I’ll let the out-of-town scoreboard
           babysit the hours,
           keep the room humming

           while the crust finds its courage.

“Clock Management” becoming
      “Slice Management” after dark—
       extra cheese for the missing,
         a little heat for the hope,
                  meat for the ache
                  that won’t
                            quite
                                 quit.

I’ll save you a slice—
     corner, if you want it,
     wrapped neatly in foil,

     a Sicilian promise for tomorrow.

Until then,
      I’ll eat slow,
      let the game run long,
      and practice the only play
      that ever works—

        one more bite,
            more inning,
                 minute…

                 closer to you.