Riding the bench all weekend,
                  glove cold,
      cleats collecting dust,
     waiting for your signal…

         then out of nowhere
              you stepped up,
                     smirked,
    fired one at the letters—

           “My Stupid Mouth,”

     John Mayer on the mound.

Touché, Mari.
Well played.
RBI to you— smart save.

This morning,
     you emojid my voice memo—
     not a home run,
     but a sharp single up the middle,

     enough to keep me on base,
     close to scoring position.

Yesterday was an Irby’s day—
                    working,
          watching wildlife:

   brunch moms in migration,
    Overtime cheering along,
          Cardinals winning,

   creeping 3.5 back of the wildcard.

Today’s the office,
        the coffee,
         the grind—
but better knowing
you’re still listening…
             and maybe,
            just maybe,

we’ll be back in the box—
  your pitcher, my swing.