Piles of electronic circuitry haphazardly
stacked on my desk, (threatening to fall
by the way so I am giving it the glance of
you better not dare) to perform the
simplest of tasks: playing a music file
so that I may listen on headphones
to one of a twenty three thousand that
I have curated for the better part of
thirtyish years.

I am the old tech, actually, the bones
that seem to creak with movements like
hoofing myself off the sofa, or
walking up the stairs to breaths a
gasping, yet, as long as I can hear
the tunes, the bright twinkling pianos
or heavy guitars, or bold trumpets, or
lyrical waxing, or any kind of
instrument be it physical or synthetical,
I will be OK.