For so long I was content to just watch the record slowly revolve on the turn table:
Achingly slow but, somehow, safe and comfortable--
Almost hypnotic.
I'd reach my hand out tentatively from time to time, Just millimeters away from stop-
-ping that monotonous music.
But something, fear?, kept my outstretched finger from touching the needle.
Fear of losing my grip on consistency.
But the funny thing is, while in my mind I held tightly to that. . .
ideal(?)
In Reality, I held tightly to nothing,
Powerless to change anything, to affect anyone.
My arms: dropped limply at my sides; my hands and fingers: dangling;
What life could be: scattered on the floor, and
Hidden on the record, between the deeper grooves I hadn't reached yet.
Do I even dare to take that risk?
Careful. . .careful.
If only this thing would stop turning.
If only my hand would stop shaking.
If only these records couldn't scratch.

back to my poetry