Spin

I will enter the vault in search of the song I believe I have spun here on old vinyl.
Memory could not make it down that steep, slippery slope to finger snap it up.
Or whistle while I climb that cliff some higher to reach a plateau, turn around
and peer over, see back that far away below,
for panting too hard on my hike up this high here already.
Breathless with it’s on the tip of my tongue breathing,
I’m about to rediscover the definition of the sheltered life,
my old shelved friends whispering there their thin grooves
in my mind’s ear. Encased in their dark sleeves to store dust upon,
unknowing the sun or moon’s out’s irrelevant anyway.
Each piece of time frozen, they sit singing near silence to themselves
their eternal solo concerts for one listener.
And now one will give up its secret keeper answer key
to my long ago down the mountain looking up years question.
You know, it’s that just under the surface of music memory,
where what’s lost is only momentarily missing if you’ve got some power left,
is always about to be found here if I can make the trip up again.

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