Let It Play

My son’s record player skips

years off my life, drowning port

holes in my summer mouth

He lays Playboys, like Spring,

on top of the dresser

I fold over them

like laundry, my toys earmarked

in the bedside drawer, my own mother’s

jewelry still locked inside her poodle

skirt, spinning 45’s with her brother

on the lunchroom floor

My son wears red garters

in the college courtyard,

my eyes dancing to the spin

of his blonde locks; my vinyl mouth

unfurls in his head – he twirls time in

crisp subversive two-steps, drumming

forward – while I nod in the corner

sucking lollipop fingers, waiting hard for

the center to crack

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