I look down
at my kitchen floor,
silvery marks on the tile
made by the legs of the dining chairs
being pulled and pushed,
back and forth.
I remember having a packet of green, felt
floor protectors in the drawer of the table
where the Crosley sat atop.
I'm playing Billy Joel's "Piano Man"
on that turntable right now,
but it's sitting on a bookcase. That table,
that table is from a different life.
The record plays amazingly well,
no scratches or skips,
none at all.