My life as an enthusiast

My life as an enthusiast

My life as an enthusiast begins before birth,
a devotion to optimism pours through me:
By five, my invisible friend Henry arrives for dinner.

Just-born musings of what to do and why
echo along the busy sidewalks of my child-dreams:
I try to teach my parakeet Mickey to say 'pretty bird.'

Circumstances of perplexing and small humor
greet me as I slip more and more into the world:
Teddy's button eyes won’t glue back with jam.

Disheveled impulses wash over me,
regroup, and tour as questionable events:
Skipping home, stolen crayons spill from my pockets.

Scribbles in hope-stained ink fill the empty margins of
after-school and just-before-dinner:
Our landlady doesn’t like me to draw on the side of her house.

Waiting takes longer than promises heard at bedtime
but they also jump out and surprise:
My baby sister cries when we bring her home. I cry too.

Learning is for school but knowing is mine -
the differences aren’t similar:
In my drawing, Jesus wears a nice suit but makes the nuns laugh.

Sometimes my questions get only a speck of attention
but their decisions ask for more than I want to give:
Daddy buys a house for us far away in the suburbs.

Changes are bookmarked in memory

but slide around on the routine of life:

We drive in Auntie’s station wagon to our new home.

I think living is an act of devotion

and that enthusiasm has many voices.