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.
Beautiful. Impeccable meter makes the bitterness go down surprisingly quickly, but there it rots in your stomach. Love this
Ouch. Thank you for sharing your soundtrack.
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