top of page
Kayla Naab
Sixteen
Take the elevator, level sixteen.
Lives tucked under our arms, we’d run.
Alley gravel stuck inside our treads,
lucky we made it.
If they’d give us a key to the city,
we’d wash ourselves in lamplight
every night.
Instead, we take this morning and stuff it, stiff
into a button-down shirt that barely fits.
We’re stuck inside our boxes,
screaming on the inside.
If they’d give us a key to the city,
we’d soak the hazy dawn
into our pores, and sing.
bottom of page