When I became a poet I sold my black heels.

The ones that clink like a cubicle.

I sold my pillow creases, the edges of my blankets,

and the chips of black nail polish from my thumb.

When I became a poet I sold my shed eye lashes.

The ones I drop in front of the mirror each morning.

I sold my apple cores, my hot-pocket commercials,

and my extra shoe laces.

When I became a poet I sold my favorite sweater.

The one with the blue cupcakes on it.

I sold my purple head band, my jelly bracelets

and my peppermint chap stick.