by Scott Silsbe
The other night, up at your place again,
I hope that you didn’t think me too rude
when I, drunk off so many boozy beers,
took over your stereo, thumbing through
your recent acquisitions—beat to shit but
certainly playable—until I found that old
Otis record—the one that we’d spoken of
years ago in some old Pittsburgh dive—
and I put that record on, and turned your
stereo up about 10 or so notches, and your
father-in-law said Otis’s name, and I said,
“Yes” to him, then I looked back over at
the record sleeve, and saw the old sticker
on the front cover and again I said, “Yes.”
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