..and so, the old man came back,

finding nothing

but a worn down record needle

skipping around a still unfinished finale. 

Lack of tools for an injection.

No bridge between gasping analogue

and unstoppable digital currents.

Waves of exhaustion

seemed impossible to cross.

“Seems?  Madam, I know not of seems.”

Orchestras made of dust mites

spun out of filthy grooves gathered

around the slumped over composer,

awaiting the drop of his baton,

but the only movement

came from a loose lash,

freed up by the opening

of an eyelid

from over the horizon of the record player.

Three on their break valets played knothole games

of waiting outside the window

held open by an old tour book

of Downtown Los Angeles.

“First Wave!”

Half the troop swooped away on the first rise.

Wooden horses

had all been made into kindling

to light the fire

for the surgically repaired and slightly aged ice queens

who had ringed off the center label

to do their exercises. 

Motivated, the rear flank took the hills, bringing up half of the surviving first half,

now making up 3 quarters of the battle.

“Onward!”

screamed the now

orbiting

       conductor,

having to choose his words carefully,

with only had a few degrees a second

to speak to his hurdling crew.

Sunlight through glass.

Magnification.

Quick sand of burning plastic

causes more casualties.  More casualties. 

Still, onward! 

Closer, the ice queens arch out messages but there is little time to read.

….the scratching needle.

A single dust mite

triple jumps the last four grooves 

sending word back

on an old program. 

Scratches from blades of skates

Not hearing the news, the old man ditched his baton and tossed himself under

the needle, catching his cloak.

Sliced in half by the unyielding scratch.

Amused,

the dust mites that had made it across cooled their feet on the ice, while a few held in their pain

making poetry out of scorecards

moving across the smooth ice

for the last dance of the evening.