Dearest, sweetest Cadi. I was, alas,

the middle-aged pot-bellied barfly

whose gin-jointed knees weakened

at the sight of the willowy young

mixologist. I miss your hips bouncing

and swaying to Patsy's velvet croon

of "Walkin' after Midnight" on the Red

Hat jukebox. I miss your brass-knuckled

laughter, your unmistakably Bawstin

voice, balm to all my inner wounds.

Do I miss the drinks? Not really,

but they did bring me closer to you.

I'd love to see you again someday.

I imagine a chance MBTA encounter

or a serendipitous North End hello,

fancy meeting you here, and so on.

Maybe it's not in the cards. Anyhow.

Just wanted to say I'm thinking of you.