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,
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.