An Elegy for Miles

Anna was eight when the needle fell out. From the disjointed arm on the 45-spinner. As she toyed with toys and the bob of the arm fell to scratches and squeaks, barking.

It was Thursday and the plasticine old Fisher, dolled up in dust, had strung the last of Miles Davis. Of Benny Goodman. Of Bobby Darin. Beneath the tree outside its haloing window rested newly buried Miles himself, a bit hairier, a bit scruffier, a bit more like a dog.

May he rest in peace beneath the sill of that overworked phonograph, bobbed with apples on his head when October comes around. And the season falls out.