By Jenny Morse

I want to be someplace else
like the restaurant my father
drove us to when I was twelve,
downtown with fish tanks
and corndogs,
as if regular restaurants weren’t enough,
as if Someplace Else were the equivalent
of backyard patios, beachfront property.

Someplace Else that burned down
two months later, a fire
in the restaurant’s kitchen,
while I was hiding in my room
with the lights on, door
open, acting miserable,
wanting to be someplace else.

Driving to my father’s office
that winter, we saw the caved
in leftovers of escape.
Burned bricks and ash
the same color
as the dirty snow gathering
in the gutter.

We passed in slow motion,
my breath condensing on the window,
and I thought:
I want to write about this moment,
or I want someone to write
about moments like these.

Copyright Morse 2012