The night we decided
to meet, no matter what,
on Winter solstice, 2018
Artie got so wasted
he couldn’t figure out
how to get out of the stall
in Shadows — our local bar
and tiny Alice,
lithe as a gymnast
had to climb over and free him.
We carried him home
to a fourth-floor walk-up
on Calder Alley.
I kept dropping his right leg
which left glyphs
In the fresh snow
to be interpreted
by those who’d later pass.
Those were glorious days,
the future — left unsaid —
was on everyone’s lips
and seemed somehow undimmed
when Ray’s F-4 Phantom
belly flopped into the South China Sea
and Barbara lost her life
to a mole gone rogue.
I never made much of my future —
never left this College Town —
worked every odd job
you might imagine.
How I loved the calls and cards
from New York, LA,
Paris, Singapore —
mates, careers and kids
though they dwindled through the years
to the occasional surprise.
How I longed for our reunion
though I should have been forewarned
when Shadows closed last year.
I stood beside the raw construction site
that frigid solstice night
stamping my feet
and blowing on my aching hands
as the whole gang arrived
just before midnight —
youthful, apple-cheeked and
full of the future.
Reunion
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