Phonograph Poem by Justin Reamer

A giant box on a mantelpiece,
Lifted open to reveal the instrument;
A needle deftly lifted to the vinyl,
Spinning in constant circles
Like a ballerina doing a twirl;
Placed carefully, music plays,
The invisible vocalist singing with
A band off in the distance.

The melody continues as the record spins,
Every beat accounted for in each measure.
It moves as the Earth moves,
People of everyday life creating music
As the record player does with their conversations,
Unaware of the Earth's daily rotations
And solar orbit around the great Sun.

The Earth itself a record,
Spinning endlessly as its inhabitants
Create music every day,
Playing in the annual solar orbit.
The great needle, providing life,
Never ceases to give meaning to existence.