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.
