When I was seven
I set up a blanket on the seawall
every day after school
and sold a medley of items
to the people walking by:
earrings made of twist-ties
Ritz crackers
selected drawings
a sweater with a unicorn on the front
in sequins.
I was brazen
and loud: a pint-sized
auctioneer.
Not even the joggers
stood a chance.
My neighbour wanted me to sell
his old G.I. Joes.
I felt bad for him.
Didn’t he know
you can only hustle
what you love?
Then it happened,
the thing that cloaks kids
at age ten:
they go stiff
and learn
to try.
What was as light
as breath
turns captive
and still.
I grew up and abandoned
my fervor. I pretended
I wasn’t heroic. I turned
my volume
down.
I wish someone had told me
that cynicism may be intelligent
but enchantment
is wise.