I Wish I Could Be the Age of the Quarter in My Pocket

by Mathieu Cailler​

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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.