I fear I’ll die before I write something for my funeral. I know writers, but I don’t trust them to know me well. I have blood clots attempting to steal my Black Boy Joy. I keep a bag packed by the door, but I have no idea how much to pack for Mars. Not one idea if there will be more days for shorts or this Yale hoodie. What will I do about the autumns? The grapefruits and the coconut waters I’ll miss? What grows in desolate places besides the roses Tupac planted?
My body. Store in a cool dry place.