Now that I'm twenty,
I beat pickle jars open with big knives.
I slam slabs into their hats,
and when they open,
When I was little, my dad used pickles to let ME be the hero.
When HE would try to open the jar,
his veins would bulge out blue.
But I would just smile
and twist them off.
And I believed him.
When my parents fell out of love,
my mom stopped buying those pickles,
at least the ones I could slide open.
Now I pound and beat pickles open.
I see others beating their jars open.
I miss twisting them off.
My child will twist open our pickle jars,
and the dents in their hats will never be seen.
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