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,
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.