Dust in the Grooves

Rain on the shop window.

I picked up a record from the bin—

nothing I'd heard of, nothing I chose—

and when I tilted it, the dust

sat visible in every groove.

Not dirt. Dust.

The kind that settles after years

in an attic, a basement, a room

someone left in a hurry.

I tried to blow it out.

It stayed.

The grooves had trapped it—

every speck of air, every particle

that fell while this was playing

for a person I'll never meet

in a room I'll never see.

I bought it anyway.

Now when it plays, I listen past

the scratch, past the sound

of something used, something

that belonged to a hand before mine,

a needle before mine. I listen

for the dust.

For proof that this was here

before I was.