I would love.
These days I have little to say
Which Billie Holiday has yet to sing.
As though the radio knows I am listening.
A symptom less pulmonary.
An extension of skeleton.
Rib shaking.
Subtle vibration of bones.
Antique shop echoes
from a Victrola Silvertone.
Ghost of song.
Difficult to explain.
Listen.
Oh, darling- listen.
Watch the notes catch the light.
Dust settled on a conversation long forgot.
The repeat of a chorus stuck in the mind-
I would love.
Could sell this love
For a steep profit.
If we just stuck a label on it.
Called it,
Vintage.
Genuine.
Hand-made.
Artisanal.
Repurposed salvage of symbolic muscle.
Upcycled lost souls.
Called it,
Retro.
Good old-fashioned American trouble.