Black Wax

All I ever really do anymore
is come home, shut the door,
and lay on the floor
killing the day thinking how best to waste my time away.

And as I spin a record pressed in 1983,
I think about the things this waxen ring has seen.
It's older than me.
I wonder where it's been played
and what went on those days.
Before me, who listened to what it's got to say?

Has it played for two people in bed at night?
Or has it watched one of two people fade out of sight?
And then, if heard, could it have set the other one right?
And what were the odds that it would end up here,
playing chords and saying words that keep your image near?

My life holds less meaning than a black piece of wax -
oh, how demeaning!
But maybe one day I'll make one too,
maybe a few,
and maybe then I'll make the same impression on you.