by Lee Boyle

Holes in the wall
hold kids, funny looks,
chilly mugs in knuckles,
silly machines, unspoken
desires, blocked paths,
their whole lives shoot like
stars across the wood floors.

I can’t sway right.  A swing
hat doesn’t work on me, young
in entombed gloom.

I think I will go

out to the alley, joining
abandoned stairwells,
gazing up through ceilings
into the dark.

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Lee Boyle, born in Oregon, raised in Ohio, is a Pushcart Prize nominee, a published poet, and Kent State graduate with a Bachelor’s in English. He plays in an Ohio-based band, Third Class, makes comedy sketches online in Bull Skit Productions, and works as a Delivery Driver. He comes from a group of friends and family with a background and appreciation for Liberal Arts. He resides in Columbiana, Ohio, with his wife who works as a Labor And Delivery Nurse.