50 poems to f**k you up after I die
Dave led Jim to the time capsule. It never hit the dirt. Dave had wanted Jim to get started on the healing as soon as possible. He wasn’t like John in that way; wouldn’t leave s**t till too late.
It was a pickle jar. John loved pickles. Spent most of his life pleasantly pickled. It made Jim smile. He looked with curiosity at the contents through the thick, marbled glass. A little scared to open it. This Pandora’s box, with a fermented genie; ready to escape with all of its secrets and ominous glory.
The jar had the label washed off and a new one replaced it in John’s meticulous handwriting. Time Heals.
Jim would have written Toe Jam as the label. But that was before he went through its contents. Felt the anger subside. Read the prose of
