End of the Line

It first was a record store: corner of Main;
Seventy-eights, to hi-fi.
Music, and music, and music!
In a cluttered, an overstocked aisle.
When the owner was busy, you’d wait:
      With the fan of Chopin,
      With the Ellington man,
      With the show-queen who knew all the tunes from Can-Can,
With your neighbors and friends
In line.

***

It then added video: crowds were insane.
Horror, and porn, and sci-fi.
Movies, TV-but, still, music!
In an aisle the length of a mile.
When the cashiers were busy, you’d wait:
      With the guy on his phone
      Justifying Stallone,
      With the punk on her Walkman, in some private zone,
And the rest of the mob
In line.

***
Somehow, improbably, on it went
Stubbornly persevered:
But prices kept rocketing: and so did the rent.
And little by little the neighbors,
And the need,
Disappeared.

***

So now it’s a coffee bar: part of a chain.
Soymilk, green tea, free Wi-Fi.
To download a cosmos of music,
You need only to click on a file.
When the server is busy, you wait:
      Only you and your screen,
      Solitary, serene,
      All those other consumers unheard and unseen…

A pseudonymous guest of your faraway hosts,
You sip and you wait,
with the rest of the ghosts…

Online.

Our third cabaret song: now in proofs.  Première details TBA.