Back
Sometimes we wish, and wish we do,
for things we cannot name.
They never happen — then they do —
or never, all the same.
If I could walk the years again,
I'd choose a girl to know.
I know her name, I know her face;
I'd never let her go.
I'd know the job I meant to take,
skip school and bring my proof.
I'd buy the stocks, the cars, garage,
the wedding and the roof.
She did not want a child back then,
but I would still want two.
I wonder if she'd change her mind
if all of it came true.
A boy, a girl, she holds his hand
and walks him to the door—
as she once walked her brother young,
as mine had, years before.
I'd change the past, the future too,
for me, for her, for you.
The current me you'd save through him—
you'd leave him whole, and new.
And those who used my body up,
who fed upon my soul—
could not have reached me anymore.
Perhaps that was the goal.