Discarded into jangled piles,
misfits, damaged or obsolete,
artifacts of bygone lives
wane into rusty oblivion.
Along the fence,
hidden by weeds,
faded old jukeboxes
stand, useless, silent.
In 1944, a soldier
dropped his last dime
and spun his favorites,
two days before Normandy.
Bombed, warped vinyl
testifies. Last selection,
“Amor”, comforted him
before the fight.
The jukebox still holds
his perfect shiny dime
enshrined, lost, never collected
dime, jukebox, solider: gone.
© July 2019
sharpwittedfl 