The Alley
The Alley
You know, that place out back.
That place that isn’t
A road, or a lane, or an avenue,
Or even a street,
But only a ‘way’.
That place where your trash sits,
That place where workers sit
To steal a smoke
Or maybe a toke.
That place of fences and gates.
That place used only for shortcuts
From one place to another.
The Alley
You know, that place out back.
That place where we don’t sweep up.
That place with no sidewalks
And minimal lighting.
That place where the air is pungent
With the odor of rotting fruit or dried piss.
The Alley
You know, that place out back.
That place we kindly call a ‘way’.
That place we all know
But where none of us go.
Roy W. Backes
© 2021
Roy W. Backes - Poetry 