Troy Jollimore

Tom Thomson in Lust

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.