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. |
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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.