In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Final Trio.”

The paraphernalia of music surrounds me,
each cracked CD scattered on the floor on which I skate
waiting patiently for a chance to sing.

I’ve skipped them now for years, favoring the snap-crackle-pop
of records, their warbling operas clouding my head as I dust the furniture

Or I’ve sought the smooth siren call of the mp3, organized and stacked in my computer
ready for an infinite playlist of dance-party hits.

In case the mood strikes me, there is still yet the bookcase,
home to songbooks and the language of poetry,

begging to be read aloud.

One song snakes through all mediums, beloved to be
Chopin, my love, your fingers play your nocturne
from disc to record to electronic
and me.


Talk at me while I eat

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