Walking through our neighborhood, mind blank,
suddenly I am young again, going door-to-door,
suitcase filled with Swipe, the multi-purpose cleaner
a neighbor enlisted me to sell.
“A pyramid scheme,” my father called it.

I was twelve years old, the base of Mrs. M’s pyramid,
standing on Mrs. C’s doorstep on Canterbury Rd.
while explaining the many uses of my product.
When I finished, Mrs. C said, “If you can clean my tub tile,
I’ll buy some.” Days before,

I’d removed a dark spot from Mrs. G’s beige carpet,
only to discover her carpet was white,
and she blamed me for ruining it. I’d cleaned
the mold off Mr. P’s lawn chairs,
bird shit from his Hoosiers flag.

Odds are Mrs. N, Mrs. C, Mrs. G, and Mr. P
have all returned to their beginning. So,
what’s the harm in telling you
how they took advantage of a kid
now that they understand Everything?

And the time will come when you see we’re all one
And life flows on within you and without you,
George Harrison would sing a year or so after
I spent the good part of an hour
scrubbing Mrs. C’s tub tile.

When the day comes and I join the above mentioned,
feel free to speak ill of my spots. (I’d give a few examples,
but what’s the point?) Like Mrs. M, C, and G,
like Mr. P and George Harrison, I’ll have
way bigger things on my Mind. Our Mind. But

thinking back to that tub and the hour I spent cleaning it,
I can’t understand how Mrs. C, she of the blonde
bouffant and late-model blue New Yorker,
could have only pulled two dollars from her purse—
enough for one measly bottle.

“You earned it,” said Mrs. C
as she waited for her two cents in change.