aid to veterans thrift is where i like best to be. beyond the cluttered main space to the tiny room in back, with the door that has nearly no room to swing. only flick the red switch or the whole place will go darker than one of hell's caverns. herein wait the records. stacked anonymously and covered in dust; rubbing up against my hands, i don't mind, wipe them on the same delapidated shorts with their embroidered dragonfly, slowly disintegrating mauve. i'm looking for someone i know. like paging through a yearbook, i scan the covers for a face beautifully familiar, or beautifully new, to me. from these friends i learn my lessons, so i seek them, pockets full of quarters, keen print-reading eyes.

the kingston trio, sometimes. peter, paul, and mary on their sunny yellow cover, who knew mary was such a babe? joan baez and her luminescent doe eyes. songs about the bombings in hanoi. and cat stevens,

(may all our voices lift in praise)

buddha and the chocolate box. he makes it so easy, to choose the greener path.