Once there was a boy who couldn’t start talking
who stood on the corner each morning,
advertising all the words he knew,
but never selling one.

Who took his sorrow home,
night after night, complaining
of the stories he didn’t sell,
of the words he didn’t say.

Who dared, one morning,
to open his mouth
without a dollar in his hand
and forgot how to close it.

Who talked through the sunrise
through the morning rush,
through the whispers and the foot traffic,
through the sirens and the rotten weather.

And there were shadows who couldn’t stop listening
who opened their ears,
with dollars in their pockets,
and called him interesting.

Who found something extraordinary
who claimed they would listen forever,
but the longer they listened
the less remarkable he seemed.

There was a boy who couldn’t stop talking
who rambled so long
the stories out his mouth
had spun themselves in circles.

Who jabbered until
they had heard all the words he knew,
and the shadows couldn’t stop leaving
and he lost his his voice

There was a boy who couldn’t keep talking
who stood on the corner each morning,
without a dollar in his hand,
out of words to sell, out of words to say.