TL

An old phonogram sits and waits
in the musky living room
where she had made it’s home.

She misses the twirling disc
her companion, her partner.
Their union used to bring people joy.

It has been too long,
Vague memories through opaque eyes
remember the music.

Atop her wooden carvings,
her darkly stained frame and her brass handle,
Sits something of this era
with dancing lights and vibrating sounds.

Would you still love something gathering dust?
Would you still like her nagging tune
playing over and over?

Would you tolerate her unpredictability?
At times she’d indulge,
One’s thirst for refined echoic sound quenched.
Another time she’d simply cease.
Unresponsive. Uncooperative.
An irritating silence.

The beautifully made,
Handcrafted and carefully assembled
remain quietly in survey of your movement.

Your piece of attention,
Your glance and your nod
is all she lives for.

My grandfather loves that piece;
Aged and archaic.
Persistently troublesome, truly erratic.

He loves that piece
that once gave him true bliss.
An irreplaceable part of him,
his reason to still dance to her tune.