Kafka at Night
I rolled a snake-eyed reptile in the made-up cage of my mind. It's  cobra tongue slithered; it's tail coiled; it's head erected; it's eyes beading on me; it's razor venomous fangs tearing at my flesh in a twisting primal rage. The poison coursing through my veins; my dying breaths; the last beats of my mortal heart. That hidden corridor. Those reptile dice. This hallucinatory terror of the night. I awake in sweat. Relieved in the remnant of sanity for one more morn'. I dress. Put on my hat. I have no name. Only a desk. A small light. An endless task with no end. No meaning. A large room with nameless men. Each with an endless task. I wonder: Do they dream of poison? Do snake eyes visit them in the night?

The Ward
Old boxers have sad faces.
I saw it in their passing eyes as I watched YouTube videos of hunted men in tattered robes. Was there hunger enough in their belly for one more meal? One more steak? To fight for a warm bed. To awake without the blinding headaches they knew would someday come. A concussed fury. The descent into a dementia born by the rage of too many EverLasting fists. The Endswell to their broken brains. The final count in a homeless shelter. The final count in a locked back ward of a city hospital where no other crazy man believes any more. Where their only glory is the fading flurry of punches against bare white walls. This is where they fall. Where the motherless boxer dies. Those forgotten, nameless men who are buried with their half-clenched fists. 
...Their hospital robes-- cleaned, pressed, sanitized-- passed from the dead to the dying who box against the shadows of sadness.