Record Player 

I walk alone on deserted streets  

with soggy crunches of wet leaves 

on the pavement.  And an autumn  

breeze that whispers the missing 

voice of my father. 

The mourning doves chirp in  

the same way certain music moves 

through vinyl.  They hum like sad 

songs on a rainy night, in which  

the lyrics sing about a lost love. 

As my mind scrambles to put 

a face to their words, yet I  

come up empty handed. 

The lake glistens in frostbitten 

skies, and the trees breathe 

slowly like a winter drive through 

West Texas.  Cracked knuckles  

resting on a cold steering wheel 

as the flatlands weep  

dying leaves on overgrown  

pastures, and the smell  

of memories slice through asphalt 

like windchill. 

The silent melody of the  

panhandle echoes in bloodshot 

eyes, and it’s reminiscent of  

the guitar I keep telling myself  

I’ll learn to play.  But instead, I 

stay up on dreary October  

nights, with the pitter-patter 

of rain like fallen acorns  

on cracked windshields, and  

write love poems to no one  

in particular. 

For my mother to read and wonder 

how metaphors materialize  

like puddles in run-down streets. 

As cars rush to take half-asleep  

children to school before morning 

traffic sets in. 

And the air from their 

exhaust speaks to me 

like an old friend, and it asks 

me why I’ve grown my hair  

out long.  But I don’t  

have an answer. 

Sitting empty headed on  

wet bleachers under stadium 

lights, surrounded by the crunch  

of football pads and the yells 

of worried parents. 

Yet all I can think about is 

if my dog believes I’m  

a good person. 

That if her innocent eyes 

can see the pen 

in my soul and the ink 

in my heart, then she’ll write 

stanzas of reasons to wake 

up on the darkest  

of mornings.  To leave  

the thoughts of the night 

behind like a cozy 

blanket on a bed 

of rusted nails, and sip  

the sweet taste of  

daylight like hot chocolate. 

But the freezing air  

and lifeless skies come 

together in an impossible  

duet.  They harmonize  

sweet melodies among  

dying mesquite trees that light 

up with the purples  

and yellows of a Texas sunset.  

On a mound of buried  

emotion and broken  

families that pick on the thought 

of perfection like a scab.  And when  

the blood rushes out 

of their deepest insecurities,  

it will flood their dreams 

and abandon their thoughts. 

Until the only thing their 

mind can comprehend is  

the whistle of windchimes  

on my grandmother’s front 

porch.  As she sits and swings  

like bunches of dead  

grass in the cold Lubbock wind. 

Despite the wind  

turbines silhouetted by brush 

fires, and stars hiding 

behind light pollution, the sun 

will rise and my dog 

will wake, her tail wagging 

with the ambitions  

of something new. 

Like chords strummed 

on an old guitar, or an orchestra 

rehearsing intently under 

flickering streetlights. 

So, on that night upon 

icy blacktops, the combination 

of dirty conscious and string 

instruments will shape  

into something comparable  

to God. 

As the melody soars 

across the southern prairie 

and the composer breaks 

his wrist as the symphony takes  

to their feet.  My soul 

shines a touch brighter. 

And the night rests 

like a songbird, whose  

chorus has come to an end. 

Amongst an indifferent audience 

listening patiently. 

As the needle lifts 

from the dead sticks 

and weeds, and the record 

slowly becomes still. While my 

captive audience lies 

sedated in the dirt. 

Contemplating what 

it all meant, and wondering  

why.