Record Store

Brick-and-mortar dinosaur,
endangered species, whose habitat
is encroached by downloads,
mail-order websites and big-box
superstores – why am I still drawn
to it, why do I still walk right into
its welcoming mouth?  It must be
the organized jumble, alphabetic chaos
of racks and racks of cases and sleeves,
CD’s and vinyl LP’s lined up
 like thousands of ribs. What is it
about the air inside that renders me
amnesiac, forgetting everything else
to do in the world, as I flip methodically
through the rows, searching for treasure?
I could hunt for hours, the stack
of booty growing in my hands –
a used Miles Davis CD, a cut-out
copy of Bach cantatas, a mint-condition
vinyl of Dark Side of the Moon.
If the guy at the register plays
something I like, I could languish
all afternoon.. There’s something
real here, the slightly musty smell
of old records, the rainbow sheen of
the CD surface I inspect for scratches,
the lost art of the gatefold sleeve,
even just the heft of my catch,
that one can never get from watching
the crawling bar on a monitor
and the message, “Download Complete”.

04/10/2008

Author's Note: Prompt from Robert Lee Brewer's "Poetic Asides" blog on the Writers Digest website: Write a poem about a location. First published in Philadelphia Poets, 2009.

Posted on 04/10/2008
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