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

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