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.