Finally

I finished my Watson Application. As a reward for your patience, here’s a prose poem I wrote in one of my creative writing classes:

They had always imagined They would die in their sleep so They made a bedroom worth dying in. A big bed, like king-sized but custom made and square. Antony and Cleopatra sized. A spring mattress with a memory foam pad because She had back pain but He was a waiter. Wrapped in a sheet printed with dinosaurs that They had bought on the way to a picnic because it was the cheapest one in the store. He said the red satin pillowcases kept cold the longest but they were really to train Him not to drool at night. She made Him do the laundry and the pillows had begun to look like they had been worn to the gym. Only three pillows because She half rested on His chest. Curtains made from two parachutes to save the world from what was Theirs. The nightstand was the fruit of a dare made in North Carolina. He told Her She was too chicken to go to a late night garage sale advertised on a lamppost. The sale was at night because it was being hosted by an elderly couple whose house was at risk of foreclosure and they were each working two jobs; She had bought the stand out of pity and to stave off the guilt for Her presence in their home. The lamp on the nightstand was made out of a flashlight and a kite because She said He wasn’t

good with his hands. Monogrammed towels didn’t hang off the doorknobs but tie-dyed ones that Their daughter had made did. She had warned them individually to wash them before use, but she was older now and was receiving towels of her own. They didn’t have a rug because of Philip. Philip was Their dog who was named Philip because They savored the horrified facial expressions: Philip took a dump in the living room or Philip only likes to sleep with Us when he’s in a bad mood. Philip could hear the front door open from the bedroom and would sprint to greet Whoever it was, but Philip couldn’t get traction so his nails clacked on the hardwood as he ran in place for a moment like a cartoon before clumsily bounding out of the room. The spot Philip always lied on was right above the water heater and He didn’t want to ruin it even after Philip was gone. The house was quieter now. This night He fell between the dinosaur sheets and took a bottle of pink pills out of the nightstand; put it to His lips, tilted His head back until the rattle stopped. He pulled close the third pillow, the one that still smelled of shampoo, and shut His eyes. Now He knew what Philip had known, that no one was coming home anymore.

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