Twelve Cassette Tapes

One of the twelve tapes

we had was Linda Ronstadt. She’d been mistreated.

One pine mini-crate, held a dozen

cassettes, sat on the bench seat in the front,

and were played on road trips.

I hear Sergeant Pepper and see the blurry cover. Blue, colorful,

mustache-oed.

A Lovin’ Spoonful of what? I was only 10.

Yellow, red candy hearts, an image

of summer sidewalks in a summer city.

And lipstick everybody, Janis.

Don’t murder me, I never knew

what some of these songs meant,

but they were all gentle, and smooth,

like the fourteen foot Chrysler Newport in robin’s egg blue

that carried us slowly through Suburbia to Grandpap’s.

I will love you when you’re 64, why wouldn’t I? And I’ll

think of the sea sponge, soapy, swishing

across crystal diamond platinum blue

Lincoln Continental (no rust!).

So love me do, as I mind-wander

to these tunes

and ramble to you.

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