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.