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