The Autopsy

I worry about what will be in my stomach when I die.

I’ve seen enough detective shows
where the contents of the victim’s stomach
are sloshed into a white enamel tray,
its rim edged in blue.

A coroner examines the varicolored pallet
for signs of treachery;
spleen in one hand,
pastrami sandwich in the other,

a slow burning cigarette
hanging onto the precipice of his lower lip,
like Buster Keaton.

Would he see my viscera and think,
“Bologna, Swiss and mayonnaise;
you were a fool to think the whole-wheat pita
would make a difference.”