If I was.

A short poem. Not very good, but whatever.

If I were eighteen, I might could dye my hair green or buy vintage jeans
  by the truckload, and send them to Leeds.
    If I wanted.
If I were twenty-four, that would open the door to new halls, new spaces.
  I’d carry an old suitcase filled with old faces and go to odd places.
    If I wanted.
If I were fifty-nine, I’d marvel at how time flies and how much longer I’d stay alive.
  I’d sit in a wicker chair and tell young kids to stay in line.
    If I wanted
If I were ninety-eight, I’d think about all my friends of late and sit like a
  bored bloodhound in the sun; watching the world spin.
    If I wanted.

But I’m not.