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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: