The Spring I was turning 33 and a ⅓ I was getting rid of everything that I could. I took all my books to the community centre And a duffle bag of clothes to the downtown shelter. As for my record collection collecting dust in my closet Tried make some extra cash at the flea market. Every Sunday night at the midtown mall Fluorescent lights wash over us all Between board games, model trains, hockey cards and comic books, Arts and crafts, old photographs, homemade baked goods. Flipping through flamenco, calypso, and disco, Solo viola and Yo La Tengo, Instrumental versions of popular songs, 5 easy pieces for guitar and drums, American music with fake British accents, Sea shanties and murder ballads, Shoegaze new-wave honky-tonk Hip-hop doo-wop soda-pop-rock, And the local bands with pots and pans, heavy metal pedal steel, Clean tones, drones and jams, freewheelin’ jigs and reels. We've all had some interesting choices; Grateful Dead or Guided by Voices. Got a Bob Dylan bootleg from back in the '80s, And a Neko Case concert backed by The Sadies. Chubby Checker getting stranger in '71, While I'm over here on the wrong side of the song, Getting lost and found in underground collections, Hidden gems or John Peel sessions, Or a lonely Springsteen in 1982, In blue collar bad dreams, high beams, and drives-thrus. Round about midnight we were wrapping things up. I packed up my stuff, put it back in my truck. At the all-night diner, on my way outta town, Got a cup of coffee and a last look around. After going thru the soundtracks of my youth I left the change on the table and the records in the booth. All of these records once felt like a place, I lived in these songs and drifted off into space, On dance floors under the stars, in living rooms and legion halls, Outdoors between the bars, in the back of classic cars.