The Life of the Living Room

with my eyes closed
I aim at the centre of a moving target
at those beatles in the grooves
from the old days
at the stylus that stores and couples
the chords
in the dark heart of the record.
You were that face
revolving below
your lunatic eyes at a loss
making the record skip
and on your other side
my harrowed ear
A shell - inside
a rippling tinny sound
like days churned up
that grew with us
                        the kids
from the steamer
aboard the ship of music
towards which country at which checkpoint
the border of age
awaited us.
Dusk on a turbulent day:
we have reached this point.
The room now broadcasts
its acoustic through the house
like a matriarch of horror
who in the long run
marks what has come to an end.
Our own private property of listening
thickly quilts us
the riveted married couple
plumping up the armchairs
                                   that couple
who sunk in the resources of time
bore the weight of friends
lived their performances here
in the living room of this conversation.
They're no longer here but to evoke them
(do you remember what you used to say?)
fills a book with quotations
fills this moment to the brim with laughter;
writing about them is contagious
a trance
of haunted elation.