I have owned
and discarded
so much I’m finding again here;
little of it
do I care to own again,

but upon raising from its place
a copy of — well, you don’t need that
information or why it’s important —

upon
raising it,
how swiftly I recall

the ritual of slipping
this exact beloved
out, laying on a light finger
for a subtle 
check of its nature, balanced
and spun upon a single finger
to test for warp and curve;

remembering how
I used to live that way

and though I am no
current cult audiophile, prefer
CDs and files to such 
stacks and stacks, 
upon considering

the green-gray dust 
in the crease
of this gatefold album,

thinking of 
nearly forgotten 
all nighters and then seeing

on this otherwise
pristine jacket
ball-pointed writing,

“property of Stan,” I
of course must
buy it,

all the while hating
Stan,

wherever he is now,
whoever he is
or once was.