Sunday, 2pm, the record store

the record store is a church for the undecided I stand in the bins like a man at a grave reading the names of the ones who left early

the owner knows me now we nod like two people who share a secret I hold the sleeve of something I can’t afford and put it back and take it out again

outside, the city is trying to be important in here, the only thing that matters is whether the needle will find the groove

I buy nothing I leave lighter the light through the window falls on a stack of used Sundays

I think about all the songs I will never own and I am somehow okay with it somewhere a chorus is waiting for a person who has time