Poetry: Withdrawal

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There is no music I can listen to

That does not have an overtone of you.

No Crosby, Stills, and Nash. No Billy Joel.

Forget Chicago. Boston. I control

The presets on the stations: maybe Jazz

Will be my new life’s soundtrack, post-divorce?

I cannot dance to it. I tried. Its course

Of rhythm shifts are jarring, and it has

Upsetting dissonance. Debussy’s great

For cleaning house, but that’s a crippling chore.

(Your stuff is everywhere.) Now I abhor

How Reggae guides me to a swim-up bar

In sunny Mexico. The angsty stuff

By new Bob-Dylanesque types is enough

To make me throw a pity party. (Are

You sorry that the you I knew was drowned

By vodka from a bottle, slug by slug?)

Goodbye husband. Goodbye Motown sound.

You and music were my only drug.

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  1. Beautiful. Impeccable meter makes the bitterness go down surprisingly quickly, but there it rots in your stomach. Love this

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