Nodding to computer radio,
light years from the a.m. of my youth.
Cousin Brucie fell, alas, to eight tracks.
Vinyl beware of cassettes, forsooth.
Reel to reel’s dying protests were tragic.
CD’s were the new audio rage.
Quality of sound touted as magic;
this was dawning of new airwaves’ age.
There have been a hundred more perfections,
touted in the press and magazines.
On the other side there are defections,
rejecting these shallow hipster scenes.
In the end it all goes back to vinyl,
despite imperfections in the grooves.
Something in the turning seemed so final.
As if music sensed our final moves.