NIghts like Tonight

She always said
I chain smoked,
"Badly."

Never gave it
much thought,
but nights like tonight,
when the ashtray is
about to pitch onto
the carpet, strike me
as a missed chance
to admit she'd been
right and avoid
another row.

Like the one next unit
over, or prolly the next
after that--from the way
that door slammed, the
oddly muffled echo to
their shouted insults,
accusations made to all
of the neighborhood,
guess they picked up
the slack after she'd
gone,

Which was good, since
there's been many nights,
like this one, when I leaned
on the sofa--the soft crush
of one of her velvet wraps
under my fingers--taste of
Jimmy's roast beef sub,
always too rare for her,
still warm on my tongue,
and breathed in the scent
of summer in the fresh cut
grass outside my window,
thinking,

I wonder if anyone else
misses her?