a stack of wax

I ask my father
if he remembers bringing home
the discarded 45's from
the club.
woolly bully,
sonny and cher, singing
I got you babe,
standing in the shadow
of love, louie louie.
he does.
he remembers how i stacked
them on
the turn table
and played them until
the grooves wore
smooth, scratched
and skipping,
tapping the needle forward,
learning every nonsensical
word, moving my
young floppy head
of hair
to the beat
and dancing as if there
was a land
of a thousand dances.