Hi Fi
A song plays in my head
on a cheap, old
record player,
each pop and hiss
a ghost on my skin.
The opening of Rats in the Cellar
makes me twelve again
reading the liner notes
on the album jacket
while trying to understand
the lyrics,
each word
as big a mystery to me as
the girl in third period
I can't stop staring at.
My driving route
becomes grooves on a record,
I'm looping in circles
ever tighter,
skipping over warps
in the record,
moving closer to home.
The last song of the album
plays in my head
crackling from the tinny speakers
like a bonfire
warming my face
more than the girl
that sparkled in my eyes.
The song ends,
the needle lifts,
side one is over.
I sit in silence,
settle my eyes on row 4, seat 1
waiting for class to start.
Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Saudade, Syzygy, and Deadsnakes. A chapbook of poems, "The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass" was published by Scars Publications and another, "Adrift on a Cosmic Sea," was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press. Website: www.chrishivner.com, Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams
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