Brown plastic shell on a concrete floor
Left by the hinge of the sliding door
Scent of old grease and a burnt coffee pot
Holding the only small thing that I got
Tangled in ribbons of oxide and gold
Stories of summer that never grow old
Spin me around in a plastic machine
The clearest memory I have ever seen
Santa Fe wind hits the porch with a snap
I am a ghost in a magnetic trap
Worn at the edges and scratched by the grit
Waiting for someone to come back and fit
The regulars come for the midnight special
I watch the dew on a desert-grown petal
Stiff as a board in the heat of the day
Waiting for voices to carry away
Tangled in ribbons of oxide and gold
Stories of summer that never grow old
Spin me around in a plastic machine
The clearest memory I have ever seen
Pencil lead winding the spool back to start
Tighten the tension to steady the heart
One kind of friction to keep it all tight
Holding the signal throughout the long night
Copper and chrome in a dusty old case
Searching for one familiar old face
Hiss in the background like steam from a grill
Everything moving while I am standing still
Tangled in ribbons of oxide and gold
Stories of summer that never grow old
Spin me around in a plastic machine
The clearest memory I have ever seen
Spin me around once more.
Just one more time.
Magnetic tape.
