Syracuse, NY 13210
Volume 8, 2008
I Hope My Nurses Remember Playing Records
I hope my nurses remember playing records,
the way we’d slide from paper slip each disc,
holding it still between our flattened palms,
easing it gently (A side, B side, back and belly)
down to the table. The wrist raised,
needle suspended, the pause to gauge
the proper place. It was important to wait,
to sink the point—don’t slip!—into its groove.
Big stick, the nurses say, before the needle
enters muscle, or drains the opened vein.
Sweet ease, funk, crescendo, oh. Dancing
late night in a darkened rec room. Furrowed,
rutted, scratched in love and worn from use—
I hope my nurses remember playing records.