2011-03-11T23:17:34-08:00March 11th, 2011|Musings on life|


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
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

I wish someone had told me
that cynicism may be intelligent
but enchantment
is wise.

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