I Wish I Could Be the Age of the Quarter in My Pocket by Mathieu Cailler That I just slid into my jeans After buying two Twix bars with a Five-dollar bill. Then it would be 1991, And I would be seven, and my biggest Task would be trying to sink ten jump Shots in a row from the left oil stain On the driveway. My crush would be Bridgette In the grade above me, and I wouldn’t Understand spelling well at all. I would be Preparing—certainly on a day like today— To call my friend Jasper and bike along the Coast, see if I could beat him in a race this time Along the hill by the lighthouse. Maybe, too, We’d see a rattlesnake for real. The last time, I’m pretty sure it was a stick. My present life Wouldn’t make any sense to the boy from 1991. Divorce wouldn’t connect because love was Just a feeling between me and grandma. My current World would embarrass the boy. I hadn’t become A bullfighter. I never bought that Lamborghini from The poster above my bed. I’d never moved to New York City. To be the age of this quarter dollar To live like it even—sparkle, glint, hold the same Value as years prior. Have Liberty beam Across my being.
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