Nothing Can Quench a Lover’s Thirst
Quinn McIlhone
With a Sony Walkman
I can read at night
while listening to music
at the kitchen table
without disturbing you.
Shut out from every set,
you won’t be curious
about endless repetition
of songs associated
with the new woman.
All the same you might wonder
why I’m losing weight
or catch the funky odour
I carry, a compound
of tobacco and anxiety
underlined by
a distracted manner.
I begin to watch
MuchMusic and MusiquePlus
even though the video
is terra incognita
for people in their thirties.
I prefer otherworldly sounds
like Take My Breath Away
and schmaltzy ballads
like The Lady in Red
and I Want to Know What Love Is.
I settle down for an evening
in front of the TV,
an educated man
not far from middle age,
and turn to music channels
catering to teens.
You’re not supposed to notice
I’m acting weird.
My love life is so demanding
I lose my touch with drink
the night I get home at ten,
scoff a sandwich and say
I’m too speedy to sleep.
You head off to bed
and I fetch a Carlsberg Light,
stretching out on the floor
by the sound system.
I play romantic cuts
not heard for years,
enjoying how simply
emotional dilemmas
are resolved in pop lyrics.
I drink too much
and cannot focus to reflect
but remember evenings
with her and savour the thrill,
telling myself to live
only for the moment.
You find me passed out at dawn,
crowned with a halo
of empty beer cans.
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