Signal Hill

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I shake the leash

hoping the vibrations

loosen your bladder

I hold you

over a bush

beside a hydrant

and next to a tree

yet you refuse

We keep climbing

the hill

 

We reach the top,

our home entangled

in the ghetto

below, you decide

you’re ready and

let loose a stream

of neon yellow,

a small puddle

trickling along the

sidewalk

 

You’ve finished

but we stand here

The wind forcing

air into my

nostrils, your nose

perked up

Both searching for

our scent in the

city surrounding

the hill

 

by Ryan Hammond

 

Ryan Hammond is previously unpublished.

 

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