"Don't You Miss the Record Player"
for M.J.
-- a time capsule of blue vinyl sparks?
You could always plug into its magic.
No headphones to hush the outside world. No need
to keep your song from drifting out
the bedroom window past the film of snagged
nylon curtains that a mother might have acquired
with S&H green stamps, to a windless August night
where children played jacks and ball in the courtyard.
The faint grind of roller skates on cement--
the kind you needed a special key to unlock.
Wasn’t it a thrill to feel the handle in your sweaty hand
as you carried it to the wooden tray like a suitcase
of expectation, of travel to a place anywhere
but home. You’d release the album from its dust jacket,
hold it by its edges until the small hole found its home
in the spindle. To gently lift the needle from its nest
as the turntable spun its comfortable rhythm. The slow ascent
as you placed the arm down to hear that perfect pop
that anticipated silence--before the bass notes began
their cat walk on your mind. Too young to remember experience,
old enough to understand the voice of heartbreak.
How good to lay on the creaky cot stripped down
and nothing to do but lift an arm back from its spindle
and let its answer repeat in you until the music
was no longer the wow and flutter of a rubber turntable
but that playback in your mind, the grooves as fresh
as a different beginning.
© 2009 Emusing (Lois P. Jones)
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