As I look through my closet of br poetry I realized that many of my br poems are someone else's shoes. br I was never a woman who had one breast br removed. For that’s someone else's shoes. br Nor did I know a man who hung himself br by the laces of his old brown shoes. br Once again that's someone else's shoes. br Neither was I on crack or a little br homeless girl named Suzy Brown. br Those too are someone else's shoes. br Now as I close my closet of poetry br I realize that in order for me to be true br to my art of poetry. I must sometimes br be willing to walk in someone else's shoes.