Jukebox Demons

Jukebox demons keeping me

from the songs I want to hear.

The songs I want playing in my

head to help me get through the

long days, the long nights, the long

lulls between loves.

Crowded around the old Wurlitzer in

my brain, the leather jacketed demons

box out anyone that tries to get close

and pop in a dime. (Because the jukebox

in my mind doesn’t take quarters.) The

oversized jaws of the jukebox demons,

slick with glistening drool and blood,

grin with bullying anticipation as I

approach.

They won’t let me get by their swinging

tails, they nudge me and shove me and

ask, “Where do you think you’re going shrimp?”

And I just stand there and stutter and mutter

and hold my dime out in front of me like some

ancient talisman of protection.

They laugh, and poke each other, the jukebox

demons. They turn their backs to me and continue

to play songs that no one knows or likes, or just

keep the air empty of any songs at all. They are monsters

of the highest degree. They are cruel in their petty

punishments. In their ridiculous bullying.

I know they’ll grow weary at some point, and then I can

get to my jukebox and play songs to lift me up, to lighten

my mood, to give me the energy I need to get through it,

but for now, they’re leaning against my jukebox, smoking,

fixing their greasy pompadours  and talking about

some famous woman’s breasts and what they’d like to

do to them.  They’re just jukebox demons after all. No class.

And eventually they will get bored and go to the library to

pick on the other squares in there.