Trapped Inside A Sleeve (Monologue For A Vinyl Record)

photo from Print Magazine

Last night I broke your heart.

More lights were off than normal

the glare that skimmed across my charcoal grooves

came from the seeping hallway light 

and the Superman night light 

that’s stuck to your wall

I couldn’t see 

until you released me from my sleeve 

I immediately caught a new expression on your face

something I didn’t want to familiarize myself with

“Donna Summers Greatest Hits”

always reminded you of your first dance

at Junior Prom 79’

before you met me

on the dance floor with your shaking hand on her chest

catching the angle where the disco ball meets your lapel pin

shining a gold glimmer into her eyes

Her mermaid aqua dress made you smile when it grazed your thigh

all her friends complimented the pattern

the heeled shoes that matched her barrette

and the way she curled her brunette bangs

you were nervous you weren’t enough

so you decided to buy two copies of me 

one for her

one for you 

to save her from any other entranced eyes

That night, you took her home 

spilling a Miller High Life onto my label

you laughed it off

blaming it on the champagne of beers 

rather than the clumsiness 

you have around every woman

even your mother

Now it’s a blemish you stare into 

every time you drop the needle

the first time you spun me

she softly tapped your shoulder

“my favorite album”

she whispered in your ear

leading to you fumbling over the stylus 

and scaring me from groove to groove

She came over often after that

I was always played first 

you’d play me twice 

volumes one and two

to capture that one night

although she assured you 

the music had nothing to do with it

She hasn’t been back in weeks 

and yet you still allow me to speak

it doesn’t feel the same without the mermaid 

you don’t dance or bob your head

one night she and you danced so hard 

the needle jumped from track 1 to track 4

You etch notes into a grey spiral notebook

she bought for you 

to help write more poems 

the pages she wanted you to fill 

are blank 

the ones you use

are all about her

and the dance you shared that muggy night last May

The last time she was here 

she told you to turn me off

you didn’t listen

she laughed when you blew dust particles off my ridges

because she knew 

I had been used the night before 

ringing out in the back

when she called to say she could use her dad’s black Lincoln

Don’t use me for tears

you bought me to impress her

playing me won’t change how you acted

I’m not here for your last dance 

return to me when she comes home.