This is the year that would have seen Elvis celebrating his 75th birthday. Everyone writes a poem or sings a song about Elvis. This is mine.
Singing songs that cut America in two
without walls, a magic mirror in ’58,
bible-black boy holding stakes too
high to see over. Travelling imperfectly
into yearning he becomes me
and in that territory I reunite
with my lost reflection.
Nursing an enigma behind his eyes
he naturally hits notes that make girls cry.