The Record Store

by Grant Morgan


I brush my fingers over the album covers


of music composed by people I will never know.


Then I hear you say ‘hello’.


Then I lift my head and see you with your new boy,


whom I know


has the worst taste in music.


I say ‘hello, how are you’.


And we talk a while before you leave again.


With my face bare,


I return to brushing my fingers over album covers.


Then I pause when I find the cover of a band,


you once told me you would never stop loving.


Spring 2013