Two employees block the widest aisle
where they wrestle a Christmas tree
apart to fit it back in the box. Shabby
ornaments and garlands on the shelves,
everything red and green moved
to the front of the store. I’m here
for vinyl records, 33s, long-playing,
as we called them before cassettes,
CDs, MP3s. Stacked and ticketed
for fifty cents or a dollar. Bargains
if you still own a turntable, if they’re
not too scratched, if the cardboard
sleeves aren’t moldy. Distracted, I find
all the Rogers: Whittiker, Williams,
Miller with their signature songs.
Barbra Streisand, Broadway shows,
Simon and Garfunkel, The Carpenters.
Each one carrying the scent of memory,
a trail to follow to an unsolved mystery,
albums I left behind for a Florida neighbor.
But I’m not here for the music, don’t
plan to play Fiddler on the Roof
and West Side Story and sing along.
I’m shopping for round vinyl to paint over
with Kilz that will obliterate the label.
I’ll pour acrylic paints to let them flow
and mix over the melodies, eradicating
the scars and ruts, scratches and static
in the old songs. I’m saying good-bye
to my foolish unredoable youth, hello
to art, welcoming the paint that drips off
the record’s edges, smearing drops
with a palette knife onto watercolor
paper, repurposing, recycling the past
into something reckless, unpredictable.
–
Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops nationally on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam). Her poetry has appeared in The Comstock Review, The MacGuffin, Slant, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, The Nation, and many other publications. She lives in rural central Virginia.
© 2025, Joan Mazza
Halfway Down the Stairs 