I can still hear that actor's voice
With its bass notes, or the static
And hiss of records played all afternoon.
They'd arrive in black, metallic cartons,
Their labels faded, Matter for the Blind,
Or Library of Congress.
I'd follow each rhapsodic
Twist - Peary tries to find
The path through emptiness,
Crossing polar ice -
Or Huck slips away
From the Widow's fetters,
And the needle would stick - then silence.
I'd flip it over,
Feeling for the center
With practiced fingers,
As the Duke and Dauphin hovered
In blackness all the while,
Suspended in their violence.
Books might last for days,
But I had them to afford
In half-light, and dark ascensions,
Listening without moving.
The machine was Government Issue,
A veteran of the New Deal
(The blind began to "read" in that deprssion -)
It sent off heat like a stove.
I leaned close, clutching a tissue,
And heard the reader's stern appeal:
This book resumes on the next record...
P.S. We're hosting Disability Blog Carnival #5 here on December 14. The theme is "Traveling with a disability: the good, the bad and the ugly..." We'd appreciate your posts by Monday, December 11. Please feel free to send them to firstname.lastname@example.org Thanks so much!