Old Number

He takes some time at the jukebox.
An aged thing, both him and the machine.
Then, a choice is made: electric guitars,
and I think a London voice.

He retreats to his seat, slow and unsteady,
fumbling back the coins to his pocket,
careful not to spill his pint of porter
which he holds close to his chest.

He settles on the wooden seat,
both hands wrap the glass.
He exhales deep, closes his eyes,
as the music reminds and his soul is synthasized.

 

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