Vinyl

-source-

The creaks and cracks

Of her antique record player

Slowly chaperones the hollow echo

Of a dauntless verse.

With a natural ease,

The instruments amplify

And a tune chimes in

Stretching between halls

Invading every room

“If there's a cure for this
I don't want it
Don't want it
If there's a cure for this
I don't want it,

I don't want it”

The music vibrates her soul

Narrating her thoughts

Drifting softly

Recalling days gone by.

She hugs the air

Weaving her fingers together

Imagining being nestled at the waist

Humming silently.

As her playlist

Ushered the evening

Each song opened with

A quiet whirring

As the needle gently kissed the vinyl

And she continued.

I watched her

Endlessly in thought

Dreamily swaying away

To her musical tradition

Stirring blended aromas

As I awaited Sunday’s dinner.

 Olsfred James 2016©