Missing

I sometimes miss the tropics

I miss sweating for no reason

under the drone of a fan

ready to quit her job

like the rest of us

in this fucking heat

I miss sticking to you

under a half-draped

blanket of too-heavy cotton

I miss hearing jazz

and fights

and cats

and thunder

I miss the last streetcar

every night 

I walk the narrow streets in my mind

St. Ann

Decatur

seldom bourbon

up and down Elysian Fields

down in the heavy drape of night

the dripping wet dark

the smoke-filled

sweet silence

and clicks of my own heels

following me down the streets

I sometimes miss the tropics

and the heat

and you