Everyone else is out
just me and these stained shirt sleeves
dangling from the laundry box,
when a disembodied tune
evokes a liquid memory
not edgy or rectangular
like words that were shouted,
but one that croons, I will sing my own song,
and something almost forgotten
the forbidden box with tortoiseshell arm
traversing black water, undulating to the centre
then jumping back as if stung, squatting as if embarrassed.
Precious planets banded by concentric rings,
housed in port-holed paper sleeves
so fragile, never to be touched
yet the clatter of shellack denied that.
A fat needle pinpointing the matter,
cutting through rings of dark water
an endless spiralling groove at 78r.p.m.
His Masters Voice the papered eye.
Songs that held her
in a cracked discordant thrall
while neighbours banged
she rhumbaed, turned up the volume,
laughed at dust and disorder.