Manhattan is a flaccid penis.
I’m squeezing my knees together
scrunched against a plump woman
whore-painted and hunched over
a dozen bags of stinking fish.
Bulging crotches enfold me,
sway towards me
with sharp track turns.
I dart my eyes to the subway map.
Staten Island is a puddle of cum,
Brooklyn, I could cup you like balls
in my sweaty palm.
We’re gliding down a urethra, a urethra!
No one has noticed the sweaty bonds
of skin against skin – no signs of seeing
this revelation of the shape of things.
I push up the stairs.
Every train is a cock,
every skyscraper a giant
silver dildo with fire exits, antennas.
I run my tongue along every crack
in the sidewalk, plunge into the East River.
The city groans inside me.