Charles Bukowski: magic machine

magic machine

I liked the old records that
scratched
as the needle slid across
grooves well
worn
you heard the voice
coming through
the speaker
as if there were a person
inside that
mahogany
box

but you only listened while
your parents were
not there.
and if you didn't wind
the victrola
it gradually slowed and
stopped.

it was best late
afternoons
and the records spoke
of 
love.
love, love, love.
some of the records had
beautiful purple
labels,
others were orange, green,
yellow, red, blue.

the victrola had belonged to
my grandfather
and he had listened to those
same
records.
and now I was a boy
and
I heard them.
and nothing I could think of
in my life then
seemed better than listening
to that
victrola
when my parents weren't
there.