Searching for Christmas ornaments
in the attic, I come across
an old battered carton, held fast
with browned and aged tape.
And drifting in subtle notes
around the box,
the scent of old electronics.
My ancient reel-to-reel tape player,
artifact of a day
when music moved
like the undulating waves
of an ocean storm.
Now it rests unused, ignored in a corner,
next to a box of records,
fellow soldiers, laid low
in that same bitter conflict.
The victor even now
taunts from the living room below,
tossing its cold unfeeling bits
about as though samples
could ever truly be
the thing itself.
As I turn to descend,
there comes a faint hiss
from within the box.
Reminder of imperfection
or parting gesture of insolence.
Either way, a memory
of how things once were.