To my last technician,
I leave this flaming skeleton.
I like you better
than a doctor, or a hairdresser.
My leaving do’s a blast, a whirl,
I’m a party girl,
Nude and ablaze like a tree,
one spectacular x-ray.
Look up from the gauges, be a voyeur,
a happy pyro-connoisseur,
But don’t think to make free
with the calcine ash, the grit of me—
That’s for a feeling hand,
or the wind.
No Comments