New Conversations

I looked through the stack of

records you gave me

the last time I saw you.


They had been sitting in the

corner of my room for months

like a forgotten houseguest.


I ran my hand over the dusty

sleeve of the one on top

of the stack, cleaning it off.


Bill Evan's caricature stared

back at with a knowing eye

free of judgment.


He seemed to say,

"It's ok. I know. No big deal."

Or so I imagined.


Classical music LP's made up

a good portion of the selection.

As I flipped through them


a few caught my eye,

Billie Holiday, Birdsongs of the

American East Coast,


John Coltrane Plays the Blues.

I set the stack down as I pulled

that record apart from the rest.


It's cover was in great shape,

still glossy. I slid the clear plastic

sleeve off so I could see the


black disc. It looked in great shape,

the afternoon light illuminating

the thin grooves.


I don't know how I had forgotten

that particular record when you

first gave them to me.


My busy mind just wanted to

forget I'm sure. I felt ok setting

the stack of records back on top


of the crate along with the others.

I hope you're ok. I feel much better

these days. I know you do.