I’ve _really_ missed our ordinary—
                 the Atlanta kind,
   where the map is made of places
   that already know your name in my mouth:

Irby’s, loud and easy.

Atlanta Fish Mart keeping our corner
              right where we left it.

Pricci when the night feels like
        putting on a clean shirt.

And always:
    325 waiting just across the way
    to become whatever comes after.

No itinerary required;
 we already know how one door
  leans toward the next—

  the familiar little circuit
  we’ve worn into Buckhead,

  and the ridiculous happiness
  of knowing I get to see you inside it again.

Wilma rolled out of the shop today,
      Nero gets his new battery tomorrow—
      our two slightly dramatic accomplices

      returning to service,
      as if Atlanta has been restoring
      the whole familiar system…

      one moving part at a time.

I’ve been away long enough
     for the usual to turn bright—

     for the thought of a barstool,
                           a table,
         the walk between one door
                      and the next,

     to feel like something worth getting home for.

Mostly, I’ve missed seeing you
        where seeing you has a history:

        walking through a door
        that's watched me wait for you before,
        taking your place in a room
        that shifts a little when you arrive,

        making the same old Atlanta start up all over again.

That’s the whole grand plan—
       to go nowhere new with you,
        maybe everywhere familiar,

    and let ordinary have us back.

I’m back.

You’re here.

And every place we know
    has started showing off.