If I were careening down Broadway dressed in my Sunday suit.
If my arms were out to either side, my hands extended.
If my eyes were shut, my head tilted.
If my coruscating smile, the kind you’d see in an advertisement.
If roses sloughed off my back and outstretched arms.
If streamers and ribbons followed, and the air seemed aglitter.
If the light fell such that no one in New York cast a shadow.
If I were followed by wolves and playful malamutes,
if the wolves wore velvet collars and the malamutes red kerchiefs.
If I spun.
If confetti in a million different colors from the skyscrapers.
If every window in Manhattan open, and the crowds roaring.
If the people on the curbs and streetcorners tried to reach out to me,
if they clapped, if they pointed, if they whistled.
If everyone on the streetcorners wore fedoras and bowlers,
if elbow patches on every coat.
If I were in slow-motion, ecstatic, and trailed by wolves.
If the roses and rosepetals littered the streets behind me.
If all of Manhattan, made of rose petal.
If I had no one to share it with.
If I had no one I had to share it with.