Ode to a CD Jukebox

There you were,

in the parking lot of a dive bar,

strapped down in the bed of a beater pickup,

alongside Ms. Pac Man

and a toy retriever game,

all dead, all going

to the scrapyard.

Oh, CD jukebox, Oh noble Encore,

with the beautiful faux wood finish,

and a bitchin’ speaker system under the hood,

when were you last operational?

What was the song you last played?

I went up to you

and inspected the CD covers.

Steve Miller and Tina Turner.

New releases from 30 years ago.

Some crap. Some gold.

Were the CDs still inside you?

Had no one emptied the belly

of this rock beast?

Oh, the great times we had in the dive bars together in the halcyon days before digital, cashless abominations and their boring clouds of algorithms.

I loathe these internet machines.

No, I don’t want to download an app.

No, I don’t want a suggestion to accompany my choice.

No, I don’t want ads.

No. I don’t want the hive to know where I am when I pay with my Apple Watch.

It was always so great on a date

to give her a sawbuck

and ask her to choose

and watch her saunter over to the jukebox.

You can tell a lot about someone by how they choose songs on a jukebox.

I would wait, wait, wait for that first choice

and see if there was any hope for us.

Bad Company hell yes.

Red Hot Chili Peppers hell no.

Dusty Springfield—I’d propose right then and there.

I wonder if the Sportsman Tavern in Pacific City will ever forget the time I played “Gimme Shelter” by the Stones seven times in a row at the stroke of midnight and then walked out the door.

Doubtless, not one got out of there alive.

So long old friend. Rest in peace in recycle or the landfill.