Hit the City and I Lost My Band

For long lost late-night friends

The wind never picked up all summer.

But it cooled down.

Late at night, in a city that had gone downhill for decades. A city that would come back, but not until we were all long gone.

Down the hill to a deserted downtown area filled with bars we never went to and a couple of rock clubs we did.

Somersaulting on the lawn in front of the State House at 2 in the morning -- grass freshly mowed, security guards safely asleep inside the building.

Past buildings soon to be torched for insurance money -- allegedly, because nothing was ever proven.

Walking in packs, thinking we were safe from anything that could be thrown our way.

Ignoring each other's foibles, as if talking about what was wrong would make things worse.

Working during the day in jobs that would expire in a couple months. Saving a tiny bit of money so the ones who had cars could drive us to the Beach every other weekend.

When the news came years later, it seemed inevitable to everyone.

The sadness was not a relief. The sense of loss may have been more for ourselves than the ones who were finally, definitely gone.

The question about why we hadn't done more lingered in the air that day like the heat that still rises from the sidewalks in the summer. We appeared dressed in black suits and black dresses, older if not wiser. And we talked into the night, ties loosened, the good times seeping through holes in our memories while the ghosts of our younger selves passed by the outdoor cafes downtown searching for the dingy bars and rock clubs that closed up shop long ago.