The rhythm of all your parts concentrated in your effortless hips, you danced, Al. Sweat at your hairline, you'd drop out of the music, come stand with me, speaking in your scattershot dialect -- Navy-MIT-Italian, orphan English. Your talent: the onomatopoeia of the abstract. Years lost, I depended on your mattress acumen, and impatience, while I learned your language again. Too late to speak it with you. Now, added to our lexicon: alzheimers, aphasia, arthritis. Your eyes know me, but sometime while I was lost and you waited in this bleached, antiseptic bed, my name slipped out of usage with you.