“The song choices were limited, / so the grooves were cut deep.”
—from “Juke” by Diane Seuss
I never saw a jukebox with only three songs,
but my first music collection started that way.
I bought a cheap record player with money earned
hoeing tobacco and corn. I was thankful then
for the little music I had, and thankful now
for the thousands of tunes piped through my phone.
Our family did okay. Mom got an electric dishwasher.
Dad jury-rigged a shower in the basement. We bathed
in water pumped from the pond, filtered through sand
but not fit to drink. We hauled up water, fresh and clear,
in buckets from the well near the woods. Happy to have
the good well, I was happier to store the buckets
in the barn when the county water system reached us.
Imagine my gratitude now, when the genie in the fridge
delivers pure water and ice through a hole in the door.
At school, I ran the hundred-yard dash. I loved having
that speed. Fifty years later, a surgeon sawed out
my creaky knee and told me not to run
on the titanium replacement. Now, happy to walk,
I forget the time. I cannot be thankful for losing people
close to me, though I treasure my memories
and the privilege of being haunted.
I value the elastic bonds of family that allow
many goings away and returns. I cherish having
a body that replaces its atoms many times over
the course of its lifetime, a spirit that endures loss
the way a fugitive escapes capture, and wakes
free and refreshed each day. I’m grateful to have
the fish without the caviar, to have light when
I flip the switch, and to have you, whoever you are.
from Geography of One
Richard Allen Taylor, Poet 