Up before the sun,
   Oscar’s at seven-thirty,
   coffee louder than the bar TVs—

Steelers in Ireland,
         the kind of morning
         that finds its own heartbeat.

24–21, and I felt it land.

You knew before I told you,
    even let out a “Go Steelers!” (did that hurt?)

Noon slid in with your Falcons at home,
               Commanders on the slate,
                and Atlanta handled it
    like a list they’d already checked.

Meanwhile baseball’s trying to end
                       all at once—
            first pitch everywhere,
  last chances stacked like chairs.

The Reds nudged the Mets out,
    one small mercy

    in a day made of scoreboards.

Afternoon hummed clean,
     then Sunday night went sideways—
     Cowboys and Vikings to overtime,
                               again…
                  then tied at forty.

Even the clock shrugged.

Between all of it,
        we kept our thread—
             not fireworks,
          just steady talk,

 the kind that makes miles
          stop showing off.

I remembered Saturday,
  then let Sunday replace it—
                play by play,
                note by note,

  you answering like old music
  I still knew by heart.

This morning I sent
    “good morning, Mari”
      and your tiny tag
     found its way back—

     not a parade,
     just a small bright thing

     lighting up the corner where the day begins.

Steelers’ morning.

Falcons’ afternoon.

The rest of it a soft chorus
    we hummed from different rooms—
                       and somehow,
                        by evening,

       it felt like our song again.