I lowered the needle to the record,
carefully.
Bobby Pickett’s name tumbled,
like pants in a dryer;
circling round and around,
on the plastic turntable.
“I was working in the lab late one night,”
it began.
And The Monster Mash tumbled
like bones from the speaker,
filling my bedroom with sound,
at 45 RPMs.
Then it did what it always did. ...It skipped!
“He opened,”
“He opened, He opened,” ...Smack!
“the lid and shook his fist
and said, ‘Whatever happened
to my Transylvania twist?’"
