BY TONY MANCUS
THE WATER IS ALSO WET
you put the penny next to the periscope
and made them kiss
like it was their birthday in the year
you forgot to get the kitchen reupholstered
you put the wet duck baby next to the rubber
one and made the tub a ceremony
full of urine and sweet handshakes
until everything pruned up and was married
you put the pants over the pants and rubbed
them together until the static sparked
and your finger tips let the lips of your favorite
poster feel how you felt, a lone chapstick smear
COMMODORE, NOT SIXTY-FOUR
the doctor of English
sat in his office
for meetings and when
a student entered
he told of his dream:
the car was black
he’d never felt it before
it was a ’48 hudson
this severe pull toward an inanimate
commodore, a fastback sedan
object, he couldn’t quite call it
a sunken treasure of a frame
desire, but the end result
you’d have to step down into
was what he described
the body was light, styled
a wet dream
as it was by a woman, the first
complete as a teen
of its kind – once inside
would experience
you were surrounded by metal
a surprise to a man in his seventies
and safe as any other vehicle at the time
Tony Mancus is the author of a handful of chapbooks. He lives with his wife Shannon and three yappy cats in Arlington, VA.