I want to sell out

 

my poems sell cars

my poems wrap fish

they open tight jars

can be stacked as bricks

 

could read the news

would open banks

write about how beautiful you are

but would have to be paid

 

poem injected drugs

lines in hospital beds 

verses not knowing to stop

when someone’s found dead

 

on magazine covers 

in netflix scripts

as product placements

next to bags of chips

 

don't insist on wasting me

behind a screen and desk 

I don’t want to do 

anything else

 

want to sell out

want to be rich

everyone told me 

poetry pays for itself