Two Poems, 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.