Fighting symptoms, while draped in burgundy, on a bed with nothing to do but think no, nothing to do but to think out loud, on what it’s like to end up a corpse yeah, to end up as a lonely corpse, one that pushes up little daisies a cadaver pushing up precious lilies, which bloom vibrant, nourished, from my dead sweat in my dead sweat so vibrant they blossom, as if they just left their mother’s womb we exited mother’s womb with a holler, but quiet from the dirt those flowers arose and once we wilt, into the dirt we go, remains draped in burgundy, fighting symptoms. Dog I got lost in the eyes of a dead dog, who curiously resembled my own mutt indistinguishable, the two were, though there’s no way they were one and the same but perhaps they once shared a body? this carcass laid with the posture of Max belly down, back legs splayed just like Max, but I don’t believe for a second it’s him and won’t believe for a lifetime it was him, ravaged with sickness on the exam table last, labored breaths on that exam table, before the pained look of suffering ended our gaze met one final time; without suffering, and I got lost in the eyes of a dead dog. Possessions I fit all my possessions into a box, and hauled them off to brave new walls they came out of the blue, these brave new walls, at the behest of my surrogate mother the request of my new surrogate mother, otherwise known to the tongue as girlfriend from the tip of my tongue she rolls off, sunlight, as without her my world would cease to spin my brave new world would cease all movement, like a jazz players’ union had gone on strike the eyes of those picketing saxophonists, unmasking a new remorseful shade of blue blue tears contained in cardboard and masking tape, I fit all my possessions into a box. Bio: Thomas Klodowsky is a writer, and instructor at Rowan University in Glassboro, New Jersey. When not writing, he's usually behind the wheel of his dream car, a 2016 Kia Soul.