All he wants is for some girl to want him
to want to see her naked. And is this
too much to ask? He took his heart attack
out for a drink, and they met two headaches

bedecked in black ink at the local bar
who plumaged and preened over cocktails while 
he let his hair grow long. O sing us
a song, the Sirens whined. He declined:

my only song is my own, and it’s yet
to be written, my dears. So he sailed home alone,
leaving a vapor trail of smudged tears

and bread crumbs. Not even the crows would touch
that bread. Not even the most sympathetic
pillow would cradle that slumberous head.