Too Late, Baby

The album cover is unglued and dogeared,
stained with patchouli fingerprints
and evokes a fug of Gauloises Disque Bleu.

I never fancied women who smoked,
but made this one exception.
Her name was Caroline, call me Carly.

The number of times I showed her how to handle discs
carefully, by the very edge or label,
yet this one is scratched:

or so I thought. Stuck by static charge,
a single dark hair, kinked and curled,
shines with early seventies sunlight, sealed in Harmony.