78 RPM

In the back of the junkhouse stacked on a cardtable covered by a ragged bedspread, they rest, black platters whose music once crackled, hissed with a static like shuffling feet, fox trot or two-step, the slow dance of the needle riding its merry-go-round, my mother’s head nestled on my father’s shoulder as they turned, lost in the sway of sounds, summer nights and faraway places, the syncopation of time waltzing them to a world they never dreamed, dance of then to the dust of now.