Monday, October 8, 2012


Sitting on a cluttered desk
Lopsided from a frightening fall off a deck
Its cold aluminum back bent.
It was the talk of the town when it was built,
Now it watches as the new model takes its place,
Like a horse who can no longer win a race.

The black slab thinks back to all the grand times it had
To a time when it was gladly held
To the thousands of jams it played in A minor
Like an old jukebox in a ‘50s diner.

Its mirrored surface still reflects the morning sun
Even though it goes without being seen.
Its owner has moved on,
Its glory days are long gone.

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