Escapism 
Peter Leight


I’m wearing my turtleneck,

underneath is the shell.

Holding my arms against my sides with my head in the sky like a passenger,

not turning around

or pausing to take a closer look,

not even turning off the lights.

A ticket isn’t something

you hold in your hand.

Of course, some people never manage,

it’s a kind of internment,

or attachment,

as with indoor pets, is it nice or is it cruel?

I often draw pictures in the margin

where there’s only empty space,

pictures of not being here.

I hardly ever imagine

I’m just where I am.

Every day I decide what to do that day,

it is different every day,

like a form of prioritizing,

you have to decide what it’s going to be.

When an offer comes along

it would be a shame not to.
​
I don’t need much space--

I’m not even using all the space I have.

It doesn’t have to be far away

because I know I won’t stay.

 About the Author: Peter Leight lives in Amherst, Massachusetts.  He has previously published poems in Paris Review, AGNI, Antioch Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, FIELD, and other magazines. 

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