Round Music

by Regis Boff

Our music was round.
The records had grooves,
each different as the
concentric furrows on fingers.
Only our palms handled them.
Prints left skips
like little crimes.
We would hard blow unseen dust
and polish the needles
before injecting them
like fussy junkies,
nudging them forward,
encouraging their toddler first words.

Vinyl rivulets of invisible sound
came sheathed in cardboard art,
album covers carrying messages
meant only for us.
We built giant libraries
from which we would lend.
Music brought us together,
without having
to be too honestly gay
when we sang along.
But old black recordings
from dead guys with funny names
like Dizzy, Jelly Roll, and Satchmo
would get us laid.
Their sounds made
the white women swoon.
None of us knew shit
about old black men.
And we didn’t care.

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