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If I should die / in this sterile bed / think not this of me, / me paging listlessly / through one of those magazines that eddy / as flotsam here. / Let me be found / not with an expired glossy / slippery, over my cavernous chest / a surreal bust and brilliant white teeth / arched, grinning / or, perhaps seeming clenched / as if she knew of the skeleton stretched beneath her. / Instead, when the monotone / drops from beating, / beating, / ceases. / Find me with Beckett or Barnes, / Whitman or Woolf. / Rather than Judy pronouncing justice, / let there be silence / in this corner of a hospital wing, / or, if you must, / let a fly buzz. / Judy, of course, is ubiquitous / elbowing around corners, / there when I’ve dozed and the nurses come through. / Perhaps others are comforted / by the theme with variation? / Black robes and white jackets. / Red halter tops and blue smocks.