The Tin Boy as Teenage Dream

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No more axe body spray Polly says,

running her hands through boy’s

sun-in tips, their faux hawk crumpling.

Let’s go all the way tonight with the girl

at the end of the stalagmite bar

resting her drink between the spikes.

Put your hands on me boy says.

Put your hands on me Polly says,

pulling his tie / their tie

whatever pronoun brings

their skin-tight jeans closer to her hips.

Let’s go all the way tonight with the girl

boy’s not into until they’re four

manhattans deep, whiskey-cherry

on their collar, rubbing at it with

a napkin. Polly chatting both girls

up under oil-slick strobe lights.

Boy young forever in their own right,

dancing till his metal knees give out.