Ode to a Disc-Man

I found the time and desperation to use my precious batteries to listen to music at last. The Crane Wife. It was spiritually massaging levels of good. I could cry. I like this CD in my cozy car on my lovely drive on smooth roads in the states. I am ready to marry it here, on my disc-man. (If you are silently mocking me for not having an i-pod, please send one in a tampon box.) I watch the drooping mangoes swing through my little window. Drying clothes that I helped to wash flutter and flap. The leaves swing and speckle to the beat of the music, over a milky mango sorbet sky. It's suspiciously perfect, as if the music waves join the dust winds and choreograph flawless branch dances just for me. I remember listening to CDs like this in college and watching computer swirls made to illustrate the music. In dark rooms we were hypnotized, wondering how high we were. How wrong we were and how sure I am now that there is no high like this.