There’s a tiny scratch on a motorcycle.
I am stuck on that score
as it skips the record back—
to the crackle and pop of authenticity,
of enthusiastic lives lived well.
The scratch joins the loop,
jarring at the start, jagged at the end.
Repetition speeding, slogging grief
for the ruined disc;
it still contains the soul of the music
but will never play right again.
Slow, then fast,
as if the drive belt
is dry-rotting.
I listen as the best go down,
the pure, the strong, the virtuous;
slow, in a drag,
the world wrecks its rock stars.
There’s a tiny scratch in everything.
Every surface,
every tank, every record
wears an inscrutable flaw,
hidden to all but the eyes and ears
fixed on the fissure
that some giant
used to kick start his ascent,
listening for the right tune to ride.