I did everything John Cusack taught me.
When I saw her in the record store,
and I begged her pardon to reach a vinyl on the wall display,
I cooked up a witty recipe of one part self depreciation,
one part sarcastic global awareness,
with a pinch of fleeting pop culture triviality for good measure.
She laughed,
and when I noticed she was holding a Walt Whitman record,
I asked if she saw any other poetry albums around,
and she replied,
“Alas.”
Not, “No, I haven't,” or, “Ew, I'm holding a POETRY album!”
but, “Alas!”
A lass, with class, then she walked away.
I couldn't think of anything else to say,
I mean, I had already dropped my needle in her grooves,
trying to take it easy on the heavy moves,
my head like a record, it spins and swoons
around girls that raid the dusty tombs
of old record stores.
Kinda ironic they leave me silent.
My heart slowing to 33 beats a minute.
It's an old song.
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