Conflict Breaks Out at Every Turn

Quinn McIlhone

At the French satire magazine

in the building by the bus stop

next to your apartment,

a voluptuous blonde

works as the receptionist,

giving the creatives

a goal to which to aspire.

I take to admiring her

as I wait in the lobby

for the bus in bad weather,

and decide I’d interest her.

Only you stand in the way.

Did I settle for too little?

Why isn’t your body as lush,

your hair as outrageous,

your role as ornamental?

Why don’t you wear a green skirt

with tan stockings and brown shoes?

You’re in red silk for the big game,

a fan of the home team,

a plaything tossed onto the bed

of the Chinese emperor.

We watch the Battle of Quebec

at my friends’ home,

and by the final whistle,

when dinner has been consumed,

the glasses drained,

you have won over

everyone at the party.

But there are times I suspect

you’re as generic

as the emperor’s concubines.

I had only a few months

without a girlfriend

and in my lesser moments

the notion persists

it would happen again,

someone comes along

every so often. I resist the idea

but can’t shake it,

that I’d have a new woman

before too long.

I pay no attention

to my years

of frenetic wandering

without you.

I operate free of fear,

secure in the illusion

there are other models

in the warehouse.