I walked around the thrift store like it was a museum. Looking at the details of yesterday one footstool at a time. I passed the posters of World War II era, the ones in which Uncle Sam points at me. The leisure suits as brown as new spring dirt. I found albums that completed someone’s Saturday night; flipped through Al Hirt, Peter, Paul and Mary, James Taylor, and Ray Charles. Some albums possessed nicks that caught my fingernail. Some records looked as new as November mornings. America’s soundtrack collected dust next to discarded Life magazines.