Analog

There are little needles on old tapedecks which sway to and fro like palm trees with the up and down of sound.
How many times have I followed those needles with each rise and fall or Freddie Mercury’s Mama Mia let me go.
Well now my mind is like a racing car down the freeway with wide open spaces and vistas of clear blue sky.
And I’m feeling less and less, and I’m working more and more and I take a little helper when I fall down on the floor.
And the clouds are not threatening and I don’t obsess about deceit.
And the furry little kittens are still asking for a treat.
My car is long and careful not to touch the sides or others.
My ability to ration has never been so clear.
And yet I rave with abandon because my phone didn’t ring.
And my ups and downs are forever buried under the walls of Mauthausen.
I no longer remember where the trail is at its end.
And my needles are pinned.