Vinyl crackles and spits,
creased reviews unfold.
Sometimes it sounds
better in my head.
All in the mind,
a doorway for ghosts
to come and find me,
drag me back to then.
The band on the sleeve
have not aged;
my lounge is
a dark concert hall.
Music fills the room
like a memory:
dust in sunlight
and then gone.
© Rupert M Loydell