Record Player Song

This day has already happened. This day is
back again. Is loop. Is returning, best
visitor. No one visits anymore, too much
gloom. Too much blue brain. Moldy spoons.
This day is fever. Coming back all winter. Pearl
necklace. Same, same, same. The morning starts,
humid like breath. The runny eggs. The no open
windows. The rain, knocking. The bad drain. The
shower sputter. The creased shirt. The running
late. The street puddle and splash. The desk
drawer. The bottle in the desk drawer. The
waiting, sitting, looking this way, looking
that direction. The sip. The mint to cover
the sip. The lunch break. The small talking,
small leaving midway through the talking. The
finally done. The drive back, the shoes off,
finally TV noise, finally wine glass and heavy
limbs and closing eyes and losing myself and
drinking myself to a place where I can see
you. And you. And your face
like God’s. The humid morning. Same,
same, same. Your lipstick naked
and watching from the bathroom counter.
Your favorite jazz record loving dust. If I put
the record on, will it be your voice
or the voice of the singer, long
dead, much like you.