The Tape Recorder

The tape recorder sits in the second drawer down

In the corner cabinet in the living room

Of my parents’ house

 

Just where I put it a week after I bought it on sale

At some going-out-of-business blowout

Ten years ago.

 

I bought it to record your stories.

Oh, your stories.

All your stories.

 

The ones I heard a million times or more

When you retold stories for the love of the telling

Not because you’d forgotten.

 

The ones you would tell only at Christmas as turkey and brandy

Settled into the cozy corners of your mind

And misted your eyes.

 

The ones you heard on the radio as you sipped instant coffee

And the ones forward forward forward forward

Forwarded by friends.

 

The ones that were jokes perpetuated between old men

Which I knew were crass before I really understood why

Because they made mom roll her eyes.

 

I am sure if I sat down now and put this pen to work recalling your stories

I could summon a few from the back of my mind

Though they have now slipped from yours.

 

But I don’t care to remember your stories.

Oh, your stories.

All your stories.

 

The tape recorder sits in the second drawer down

In the corner cabinet in the living room

Of my parents’ house

 

Because I wanted to be able to hear you tell them to me

With timbrous voice, lancing wit, unclouded mind

Once all of those had fled.

 

I left the tape recorder in the second drawer down

In the corner cabinet in the living room

And now I am too late.

 

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I have resumed trying (unsuccessfully) to publish some poetry and short fiction recently. In my resolutions blog from the beginning of the year, I set a goal of being published by the end of the year. Due to some pretty big changes, and the general business of life, I simply didn’t spend the time querying and submitting that I should have. I did write, though, and I am happy with what I have written. It may not fit what literary publications are looking for – but that is what a blog is for, right? What is the point of having a blog if you can’t at least post your own crappy poetry? By putting it here at least it exists in the world, for better or worse. I wrote this one some months ago, and have since begun writing a long-form-something that touches on the same internal questions. I am not sure what will become of that larger project – perhaps something, more likely nothing. For now, let this poem simply exist as a sober post-Christmas thought.

All the best, reader – whoever you may be – and see you with new somethings in 2019.