The Manly Art of Taking a Whiz

his rigid stance, a gunslinger’s bearing

fists jammed to his hips

glistened by silver cuff couture

shoulders squared direct

if not mightily

slicked and salty hair

slashing creases down the back of his dry-cleaned slacks

both the posture and ensemble

marking time and prerogative

the subjugated porcelain yowls at his waist,

remiss of the artistic munificence bestowed by Marcel Duchamp

more like the victim from a terrorized Otto Dix battlefront

forced to gulp his seepage

and many bladder-bloated stormtroopers prior to

crass folks might call it a water sport

he admires his self-serving tributary 

without ever lending himself a helping hand

instead, dropping a sniff,

the whistling of something barely reminiscent of The Troggs

followed by a private chuckle

the spooling calypso rhythm

of water meeting water

rushing

cavalcading

subsiding

drip

    drip

        drip

a mundane exercise turned epic by an invincible pelvic jerk

a reminder of who’s boss

if he had on a cape,

you’d swear George Reeves

had crawled out of his grave

just to take a Superpiss

–Words by Ray Van Horn, Jr.

–Photos courtesy of the public domain