88th street, between Columbus and Central Park West

On 88th street, the ginko trees
glow green, illuminating,
they seem somehow to be lightbulbs
that cast impossible, midday shadows
against every stoic brownstone;
a bulldog sniffs my feet
and the man on his leash says,
come on, come on,
and in a second the thing
comes back from behind me
so excited I want to haul up
a big bundle of sticks on the curb
at our feet, we're both eyeing them,
and throw them into the air
like batons, want the whole block
to run from their houses shrieking,
mouths open wide, clamoring over each other
to collect the splendor of spring,
to clean their teeth on its branches,
to run circles around each other yipping,
to roll in the streets, bounding naked
and muddy! A happy golden retriever
trots by, then, a big braided
treat in its mouth, hurrying to the park,
and stops at the corner--a New York City
dog with a concept of traffic--and his owner
comes up laughing, an old lady
wearing appliqués, wow! what a smart dog,
I say, the ginko trees glittering back
from her eyes, she's a rescue! she says,
an explanation that makes much sense
to me, what with all the spring salvation,
and I'm still standing here by the sticks
alone and again I have the urge
to fling the twigs, sticks bouncing and bumping
the cars, want their owners to come out
of their beautiful, expensive homes
and race me towards the branches,
stuff them in their yapping mouths, hungry,
all of us running towards the park,
not bothering to stop at corners.