My Old Record Player

is a femme fatale
with a raspy voice.
Iím in love with her
flaws, her heavy
tonearm, her trilling
belt drive.

My digital pals canít
reckon the attraction,
their earbuds wired
for pure sound.
They grow impatient
with her static and
the back room sass.

Not many of us left
who crave the irregular
weave; who wonít
fuss to straighten
the wayward seam.

Vinyl disc onto platter,
stylus into groove,
her breathy sizz moves
me round and round,
Tango and Zydeco,
Juju and hot swing.
My hips come to rest
in her deep delta pitch
somewhere east of Eve.