Abraham Lincoln’s penis wears a little bowtie and a crooked smile. It smells of coalsmoke. It smells of gin. It smells of blood. It looks at the ground. It looks at the ceiling. It looks at me. It smells of freedom, the sweaty urgency of freedom and the fear that comes with freedom.

“Hello,” says Abraham Lincoln’s Penis.

The penis of a Great Man is not a trifle. It is not a rag to wipe your nose with. It is not a dog to kick. It is not a celebrity to be stalked. It has been a part of things. It has moved the world, or, at least, it has watched the world be moved, from a very special vantage point. The penis of a Great Man will never consent to being dragged back down to the normal rut of things. This is a simple fact. It deserves respect. I have tracked it here, to this remote corner of the metropolis, after an exhaustive search, lasting several decades. Good years of my life, gone, thrown away happily, enthusiastically.

“Hello,” I respond.

“It appears we share a mutual acquaintance,” it says. It casts a withering glance at Winthrop. “Winthrop,” it says.

Its vocal cadence, its way of walking, even its way of moving its eyes, twitching its ears, flaring its nostrils, stomping the ground with its hooves, all belong to the nineteenth century, and thoroughly. You would never mistake it for the penis of a contemporary man.

Winthrop, at my elbow, bows. “Good evening,” he responds.

“And good day,” says Abraham Lincoln’s Penis, emphasizing the final word, moving past us in the narrow tenement passageway that leads to its apartment. It holds open the door for us, waits for us to leave. Which we do.

“You should have warned me,” I whisper to Winthrop.

“It’s a moody blighter, that’s for certain,” Winthrop says, “guv’nah.”

The penis of a Great Man can never live down what it has seen, what it has done. Never! Never!