A silly variation of Donald Justice's variation.

I will die in the city on the street, downtown Charlotte,
on a day nobody’s there to say “watch out for that bus,

Tracy!” and pull me back to the curb. I’ll be writing

something in my head – a letter, perhaps – in cursive font,

letters that curve and loop like microscopic silly string;

and when I hit the pavement, the words will simmer

on the asphalt in all the blood and bits of brain.

I think it will be on an afternoon, when the sun is full and
draining sweat from construction workers and men in suits

wear shades. Most of the city will walk on, lunch plans
on their minds, but a man in the burrito place will see
and say, “oh shit, someone call 911!”
the way people do in movie medical emergencies

when an ambulance is already on the way.

Tracy Lynn Martin is dead. A city Humpty dumpty,
the hospital couldn’t put her together again.
Her skin, now painted and stuffed, is riding in a box in the
back of a car - slowing traffic - making people late for work.
On the asphalt in the city, across from the burrito place is
tiny bits of brain and a half-written letter. Occasionally

some get stuck to someone's tires and roll away.