by Regis Boff
Our music was round not square.
The records had groves like concentric wrinkles on old men’s faces and
only our splayed fingers with open palms could handle them
It was sound that could be fingerprinted like a crime.
We would blow invisible dust from them and cleaned the needles before we injected them into their starting slot like careful junkies,
nudging these points forward like first stepping children
beginning their ride in the vinyl rivulets to make their first sounds.
Each one came sheathed in album covers that carried messages meant only for us.
We built giant paged books of them and sat them on shelves like libraries from which we would rarely lend.
Old black men were the most precious to own.
Guys with funny names like Dizzy, Jelly Roll, and Satchmo.
None of really knew shit about old black men but we knew enough,
To understand it made young white women swoon.