Sweet lady Cadi. I was the pot-bellied barfly

whose gin-jointed knees weakened at the sight

of the lethally gorgeous mixologist. I miss

your hips bouncing, your curves swaying to

Patsy's velvet croon of "Walkin' after Midnight"

on the Red Hat jukebox. I miss your knee-high

boots, your brassy laughter, your unmistakable

Boston accent, hurting me heavenly.

                                                                 Do I miss

the drinks? Not really. Still, for eight years they

did bring me closer to you.

                                                I'd love to see you

again someday. I dream of a chance encounter

on the MBTA, or a serendipitous North End

hello, fancy meeting you here, and so on.

But maybe the past is best left in the past.