The moments before our collision there
was that record-crackling sound
And the needle bounced dauntingly in little tremors above the LP
Before plunging into the same old grooves and lines
Carved into the licorice plastic.

Our collision played the same notes.
Fate was drunk that night and decided to crawl home,
Hope was said to be somewhere in the
Bahamas, on a boat far from shore
And Reality was having an identity crisis.

Slid it out of the paper covering and tried my best to
Place it, (easy now), onto the turntable but
My elbow bumped the needle and the record player's arm
Flung itself to life, and started playing the hits from '73
And I said dammit, because that's not how
it would happen,
If I were in the movies.

I fell asleep in the bathtub last night
And I woke up shivering cold
and I swear I heard Diana Ross crying