a quiet afternoon,

a mug of coffee encased in both hands.

i stare into the circle of beige,

at the steam coming out of the brim,

and i watch my anxieties evaporate.

a blue turntable,

a vinyl record balanced delicately on top

i stare into the circle of black,

as the record spins 'round and 'round,

and i watch the needle scratch a smile onto my face. 

 

a stack of records rest sleepily in the corner,

my life's library, enscripted into the grooves of each

Foreigner, U2, Frampton, A Great Big Pile of Leaves

every side flipped a new side of me

every song played a different memory.

 

guitar tinkles through the speakers,

enough to get me onto my sock-covered feet

and dance on the carpet,

static shuffle.

or maybe the croon of a voice fills the room

and i am on a stage,

the mirror is my arena,

my reflection my audience,

and a hairbrush is my microphone.

 

for if i do feel blue,

bluer than the robin's egg of my Crosley,

i let the needle find the groove of my sadness

and play out the goodness only my vinyls can inspire.