I want to plan a get-together if for nothing other than to have something to look forward to. I want to quit my job. I want to protest the government and for the government to listen. I want to experience magic even if I can clearly pinpoint the sleight of hand. I want to read underwater and write while hovering three inches off the ground. I want a cannoli fresh from a shop in Palermo and a hot drink from my local coffee roaster. I want to feel the way Evel Knievel and Harry Houdini felt when they were at their happiest. I want sweat. I want spirit. I want peace to tightrope across this pitiful and beautiful land. I want to learn how to play the harp and sing Bridges and Balloons from atop a bridge with balloons tied around my waist. I want borders to be the name of a bookstore again and not that fake invisible line rich people like to start wars over. I want to pet a bear and to post the picture online and for all my old friends to give it a thumbs-up. I want to book a trip inside of a painting. I want to time travel but mostly to see if the air smelled different without all the pollution. I want everyone who thumbs-ups the picture of me and the bear to leave a comment about how much they miss me too. I want [            ] to be one of those people. I want him to find my hand in this poem and grab it and to know that I think of him more than he probably cares to believe or believes is appropriate. I want him to see this and I want him to guess. To wonder if his name fits perfectly inside of brackets. I want him to questions if [            ] actually stands for [            ]. Because it does.