Last of the Analogs

Last of the Analogs

I remember the sound of disconnection,
the static between stations,
the physical act of hanging up a phone.
I lived in the age of mixtape urgency,
delicately threading shimmering ribbon,
wielding a pencil to wind cassettes past their wrinkled scars,
hovering over two plastic buttons like a surgeon,
waiting for the precise moment,
the sacred ritual of play and record.
I measured time by the length of side A,
by counting the sunsets before my letters found hands,
by the precious minutes each quarter granted,
by the languid timer on darkroom walls.
What will my son's body remember
when he reaches the meridian of his life?
I am the last of the analogs.

41/100
-nl