Pissing on a Wall
The words seem to come out right,
but dry up too soon
when the sun hits the bricks in the alley.
All that’s left is the odor
of something you can no longer see
and may not want to.
The stream as it came out
felt so much more than it was.
That’s okay. You left your scent.
Dogs will remember your passing
longer than people will.
They will follow you along the street,
tails wagging and tongues hanging out,
begging for more of what’s inside you
to be spilled out for their noses to enjoy,
much more appreciative than the critics
who never salivated
while reading your work.