When I Wake

Pick out one of
the old records
and place it in the
player. There’s a
certain rhythm
to the skips and
scratches, as if
each is its own
story, its own song.
Brew a cup of tea
lie down on the
couch, head on an
arm rest. Is the
brew strong, more
so without sugar
and milk?

God I haven’t heard
this record in years;
it plays just as I
remember, but I
understand it so
much more. Same
words sung, same
instrumentation
arranged between
the skips and scratches;
I’m twenty-seven now,
I was sixteen.

Rain pelts at my window.
The record spins the final
song. An inch of cold tea
left in my mug. Tomorrow
I’ll wake and be thirty-eight.

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2 thoughts on “When I Wake

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