Atlanta-eve, and the day has its suitcase out—
             appointments folded edge-to-edge,
     work stacked like shirts I can’t wrinkle,
     MRI hum still in my ears from Ava’s knee,

     surgery circled on a calendar that suddenly behaves.

This week wasn’t poetry,
       it was necessary.

  (but even necessities
   hold hands with hope)

The minutes pack themselves now:
    boarding pass in the watchband,
    charger coiled like a promise,

    the word “Hug” written where an alarm should be.

I keep the hours busy on purpose,
  thread them through errands and emails,
   count them like beadwork
     and tug the string toward your door.

Thirty hours isn’t a lifetime,
       but my chest still measures it
       like weather crossing open country—
                                     long,
                                      low,
                        and moving my way.

I practice small arrivals—
  the first step off the train,
  the turn at the corner,
  the smile I don’t even try to hide.

  (our stool knows which way to face)

What’s left is simple:
       finish the list,
         raise a glass,
         lay the phone face down…

         and let the clock do the last bit of loving.

Soon the math gets easy again—
                carry the one,
               drop the miles,
                divide by two,
       and meet in the answer.

I’m ready.

     (let the zipper close)

     (let the minutes hurry)

…see you on the other side of waiting.