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.