The broken record asked how I was doing 

I told him the truth: “Sometimes it’s hard to keep moving

For eight  years I’ve been spinning

I thought it would get easier but honestly, I don’t know what it looks like to be winning 

Everyone dies 

It doesn’t matter my effort

There’s a drug for everything 

But they don’t fix anything

They just extend our miserable lives”

The broken record screeched 

Said, “You know what it’s like to be me

Music is the same as medicine

We like to think it cures but it could never fix what’s deep within”

There were circles scribbled on the wall with crayon 

The record talked about gun shots and sirens, people cryin’

He said, “It’s painful but I keep playin’ on

We’ll never know the real effect on this side”

He rolled around the room and said, “Don’t you want to hear music though, on the day you die?”

I told him to take care of himself 

He spun over to the corner and sat on the shelf

He hummed a melody 

I talked about exercise and eating fruits and veggies 

We sat for a moment then stood 

I held him in my hands 

He munched on a celery stick

I sang softly to the lyrics

Then me and that broken record danced