the last groove

the plates drip dry
up-turned cups drain
as water runs in rivulets
into the sink

smoke escapes
from the chimney
of the house
across the garden
while black birds forage
pull up worms
from moist
new turned soil

music is playing somewhere
but for now
my revolution is over
on the sterile CD
the unscratched
version of the Pistols
has come to an end

how I miss the sound
of a stylus
playing the last groove
forever


Jim Bennett (UK)