Lurking dusty in the back of dismissive houses,
sits the forgotten box of a treasured item,
or skulking in the rear of auction houses,
causing the pulse of obsessives to heighten.
The thrill of the box of records you discover-
as your shaking hand pulls back the cover,
involuntarily, the anticipation begins to mount,
time, energy and money simply do not count.
We flick between rows of vinyl and styrene,
not another bloody copy of Come on Eileen?
And the empirical evidence rings a bell,
can someone please inform me, pray tell...
just how many units Boney M did eventually sell?
Bent over and straining my back,
mining for that elusive track.
Just as the hours spent seem a wasted farce,
finally, “shining like a diamond in a goat’s...”
a carat grade 7 inch that’s rare and sparse!
Poetic Opus
The Swilgate Scuttler