Haven’t found anyone
From the old gang.
They must be still in hiding,
Holding their breaths
And trying not to laugh.
Our street is down on its luck,
Its windows broken here and there
Where on summer nights
We heard couples arguing,
Or saw them dancing to the radio.
The redhead we were
All madly in love with,
Who sat on her fire escape
Smoking late into the night,
Must be in hiding too.
The skinny boy
On crutches
Who always carried a book,
May not have
Gotten very far.
Darkness comes early
This time of year
Making it hard
To recognize familiar faces
Among those of strangers.