The Skip

The driveway is a river of mud and grit,

The sky is the color of a bruise.

I need a sound to help me sit

And give the quiet its dues.

The record is warped from the summer heat,

A black disc wobbling on the pin.

It looks like a plate dropped on the street,

Letting the scratch and the static in.

The needle drags through a ruined mile,

Jerking back to the start of the line.

I watch the spindle for a while

And wait for the weather to be fine.