We meet every ten years at the Uptowner. The factory where we met across the street is a pasta factory. Now. The bar has a different name, the friend that was your friend is dead, the barber shop is a bathroom, the lost and found box moved behind the radiator and there is a new pinball game, a jukebox filled with songs of then, a dance we had with Dolly Parton, eight-ball = Rick James, bowls smoked while Nirvana curled around the back bathroom, the unisex stall, still a secret to the regulars like Arnie the Know-It-All, Rocky the Drug Dealer, Captain Jim, Riskee Bizness, Paul the Serb. Ten years from now I’ll be dead or metal. You didn’t show up this time, this bar smells like you were just here, it smells like smoke, breathing, my calendar.