Quarter in Pomes and Epigrams

I used to pick up a quarter
and work out,
how old my Dad was when it was minted,
and if it was new enough,
how old I was.
1969 - he was nine,
fighting bullies who took his name in vain.
1978 - he was eighteen,
rebuilding his wrecked motorcycle.
1986 - he was twenty-six, I was six,
selling bulletproof glass to gas stations,
while I wore my dinosaur costume to the school halloween parade.
1992 - he was thirty-two, I was twelve,
taking long horseback rides together to outrun his divorce.
1999 - he was thirty-nine, I was nineteen,
separated by state lines and life trajectories.
2002 - he was forty-two, I was twenty-two,
him weeping on my shoulder at graduation.
2006 - I was twenty-six, he was forty-three,
no longer matching.
2011 - I was thirty-one, he was forty-three, my son was one.
contemplating a move across the ocean.
People no longer hand me quarters,
but I have not lost track.
I’ll never lose track.