Antique shops can be dangerous.
They’ll set the mind reeling back
to what once was, your childhood
now part of history books.
For me it was an old RCA
45-RPM record changer,
on the shelf behind the cashier’s counter –
brown plastic casing,
vertical notches in the side
to let the tinny speaker squawk through;
fat red-capped spindle on top;
tone arm, heavy as a rocker rail.

As a kid, I liked to play “dee-jay”.
My little sisters would slide notes
under my door – song requests.
I would gladly oblige,
slipping singles on the spindle.
Maybe I was more a human jukebox.
One day I played nothing but Beatles music.
My sisters danced in the hall outside my door,
to “She Loves You”
and “Eight Days a Week.”

Music was more tactile then.
Those round black vinyl records
stacked like pancakes,
waiting to be tasted, one by one.
They plunked and scraped
as they dropped to the turntable;
the needle popped and bobbled in the groove.
Those old platters acquired nicks and scratches
that gave them character, like battle scars.

Now everything is so clean, convenient,
digitally programmed, solid-state, compact.
When I pop a Beatles CD in the drawer,
I hear a whir, I watch the blue digits wink awake.
It’s just not the same.
Until my kids start dancing
To “A Hard Day’s Night”.

10/03/2002

Posted on 10/03/2002
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt