At Five, in the Attic

It was the age of high fidelity and there I was in the attic with a victrola. How odd it was. Its needle like the proboscis of an insect. The platter covered with green baize, as if you might throw down poker chips instead of a record. It was most certainly a gambler’s machine. I’d put the needle down on the fast spinning disc and hear something uncanny…arias and folk songs sung by dead people. Gambling, ghosts, the wind up mechanism with its baleful crank.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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