I miss her brash tongue

her caustic vulgate of affection

I miss the sweat of her speech

I want to play bare-knuckled tonsil-hockey

that lands us both in the penalty box

I crave the salted rim of her sarcasm

her hundred-proof blue-label wisdom

I remember her reproachful look

when I said I liked Nicole's martinis

I bow to her black knee-high boots

genuflect to her hips as they swivel to Patsy

venerate her voice doing Winehouse word for word

I cherish an ashtray vocab

that would never take the name of Jesus in vain

but would drop the F-bomb forty times a minute

I daydream still of kneeling at her feet

and kissing away the hurt and heat of her workday

once I explained the word "mercurial"

assuming she might not know what it meant

I made that mistake exactly once

I worship her who can hold her own

among construction workers and mafiosi

among State House politicians

and leering libidinal lunkheads

I want to see her face again

I want to bump into her on Hanover Street among the ristoranti

I want to meet her on the 77 bus on the Red Line train

at Jimmy's at Frank's in the People's Republic

sweet suffering Christ anywhere

I recall her seething anger at some deep inner pain

which she never expressed to me

nor to anyone else

on weekends if she had off from work

she'd drink whiskey and pick fights

with the other girls in the barrooms

she'd watch brawlers on ice-skates

pummel each other

at home she'd draw a bubble bath

and smoke a cigar in the tub

I happened into the Hat

on her last day there

this was nearly five years ago

we said our goodbyes and thanked each other

for years of companionship

she was the one who ended up crying

but believe you me

i've cried once or twice since then