Lubricant
I fill my Saturdays with orchestras, whiskey and cigarettes,
dancing in my living room to the melody of expectation and
the coda of disappointment. Bare feet scuff carpet tiles as I
google how to remove stains from leather and whether a
heart can be restrung. Ice clinks a rhythm against cut crystal
as I sway and spin, graceful in a way the 1920s would adore.
When I say so to the record player, the music replies by
sticking in a scratch and echoing discordant. My memory does
the same thing and I pour more whiskey over both of them
to smoothe their surfaces.
I fill my Saturdays with orchestras, whiskey and cigarettes,
dancing in my living room to the melody of expectation and
the coda of disappointment. Bare feet scuff carpet tiles as I
google how to remove stains from leather and whether a
heart can be restrung. Ice clinks a rhythm against cut crystal
as I sway and spin, graceful in a way the 1920s would adore.
When I say so to the record player, the music replies by
sticking in a scratch and echoing discordant. My memory does
the same thing and I pour more whiskey over both of them
to smoothe their surfaces.
Amanda McLeod is an Australian creative, with work in FERAL: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Not Very Quiet, Milk Candy Review and other places. She is also the Managing Editor of Animal Heart Press, where she helps poets bring their books to life. In addition to a penchant for rainy days and quiet places, she loves cheese and good coffee. Find her on her website amandamcleodwrites.com.