Should have seen this coming, thought the dog walker.
Standing on a scale and seeing reflected in the gauge only
the weight of a Labrador bristling under an existential jetpack.
Levitating in its theremin ozone.
The dog walker before mounting the scale had felt
wheelchair tracks down his spine. Scissors grouped together
as he drew closer, kind of relieving the burden.
What is organ rejection good for?
For cultivating a nice exoskeleton. Either my skull
is mutable or the gauge displaying this bastardization
simply proves the scale broken. He left carrying
his love child in a jar: 34kg of sonic morning breath.