Scratches Poem by Morgan Michaels

There it was.....but now 'isn't'.
That old scratch,
The deafening gaffe
Afflicting the Adagio,
Taunting the Beethoven splendor
Marring the solemn bar-
With a skip-tick, skip-tick, skip-tick:
After all these years-in memory
Against even the Master, having the final dig.

Scratch that even the wizardry of Bang-Olufson
Can't banish: pointless, the trick
Of freighting with coins the stylus' head
Fond, the hope of bruxxing scratch from wax-
Or whatever the rainbow-ridden things were pressed from,
Till finally the scratch
Just became part of the score,
A reminder that nothing's perfect- -
For long-not even Beethoven.

Scratch. At such a time, such an age.
Scratch. At such age, such a grade.
Scratch. At such grade, so so bent,
Scratch. So bent, the music evoked this,
That or the other thing. Ach, we change. Scratch,
Til, heard now
On the radio, scratchless, clean.
Audiophile, miss you the scratches of yesteryear?
Familiar byways to fresh roads prefer?

Either way, we never forget them, scratches. Not entirely.
They etch themselves deep in the memory- 'here.'
In this or that preferred version: noisome
Artifacts, recalled with grim precision-
Many would miss them, if in one or other edition
At least, they didn't recur.
Others might insist the wretched scratch
A useful part of this or that tradition-
But not me. I don't and disagree.