Our Used Record Store

Fictional Poem

Around the corner and
way down the street.
Past that quaint French café,
where we almost did meet.
Turn left in the alley.
Follow its path of concrete.

Arrive at the entrance donning
the tarnished brass horns.
The paint chipped and peeling;
the sign weathered and worn.
Paying heed to those bushes
with their skin piercing thorns.

I enter the store with the music too loud,
working my way through
the compacted crowd.
"Stick to your list" for its
what I have vowed.
An old, vinyl man,
adrift in this digital age.

From across the small store,
your years I can’t gauge.
And our love, I imagine -
works only on stage.
My wallet won’t pay for the wages of sin.
So I walk my way home
as the light becomes dim.

Enter into my house -
kiss the wife on her chin.
The day’s last decision;
is it vodka or gin?

Rick Dixon signature 2019

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