I wish I were a ballerina, with a ballerina body. I wish my legs were long and lithe, covered in pink or white tights. I’d take the stage as a swan, or a princess and extend my beautiful arms in second position, holding the whole world in that vast space from my right palm to my left palm. I’d be a star if I were a ballerina.
I wish I were a poet. I’d be a real poet, a proper poet. I’d sit down and write poems everyday. I would weave marvelous, colorful, radiant word tapestries. I’d cook five-course meals made of succulent, buttery, creamy, sweet words. My “ifs’ and “ands” staccato, pizzicato, as if from a violin. I’d go to public readings and sing my verse like an angel, speak my rhymes like a queen of hip hop. I’d be cool as a poet.
I wish I were the crinkled leaf that blew across the hood of my car when I pulled into the driveway tonight. That leaf is probably satisfied with its lot. It doesn’t wish it were something else. Well I think that’s true of the leaf, but I’ll never know for sure. For all I know the leaf wants to be a butterfly, or a rock, or a woman who wants to be a ballerina poet. I bet if I asked, it wouldn’t tell me.