11

Butterscotch leather
clings to my pudgy thighs
sugar, caramel, oatmeal 
cookies wafting from the oven
my mouth is watering, too bad 
they aren’t ready yet
I look at the grand piano
soft ivory keys glowing amber 
in the promising spring sun
beckon me to practice
instead 
I spin the chair left
assessing the vinyl collection 
reverently, I slide a disc from its liner
and delicately place it on the turntable 
the needle hovers expectantly
quivering, a nervous tremor 
reminding me to be gentle with her
I oh so carefully set her into the first groove
static boom!
and away I go
lost in the feelings
mind wandering the peaks and valleys 
of the the voices
lyrics, the key to the little gold lock
on the journal in my heart 
feet tapping the footstool 
headphones connected to the tuner
like an umbilical cord
tethering me to my soul 
numbers fall off the clock
landing numbly on the shag carpet
in front of the moonlit windows
Trancing to the kitchen
round persimmon table greets me
with a plate of well cooled cookies 
I pour a tall glass of cold milk,
blow bubbles into it through a straw
before dipping the cookies
devouring the safety of childhood