The Falconer's Tonearm

Bound a dime with a length of twine
plowed the licorice earth with bone,
load-bearing chords dropped off the spine
in shellac'd redoubts of Fonotone.

For the sake of us feral kids--
necks scratched raw by a two-horse town--
the sleeping cops of Michigan
poured out a can of Motown.

The thistled face of Jimmy Shand
in a flat of some small size
the hypno-coin of Frankie's face
spinning steamships past Reprise.

Brown Shanachie cottage
Angel feather frottage
this too is collage
as a function of knowledge.

Woke up this morning
began with a word--
but not of warning
concerning a Bluebird:

the weather around Fats Waller
obviates the squalor
which is more than I can say
for flexidisc RCA...