I heard that Elvis drives a cab, spends time drinking draft beer
in Vegas. Shoulders hunched, lips curled like a Slinky,
he signs his name to register receipts for No Pudge Brownie Mix,
frayed cocktail napkins, and brittle black vinyl records.
They say he ate a Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny's yesterday
in dark glasses. Sequins zigzagging down seamless pant legs.
Unable to let go of a legend layered like pages in a book,
men seek his immortality. Question why edges of black and white
photos never yellow with age. Women in long turquoise earrings,
bonded by burning need to touch him, reappear year
after year. The more they look for Elvis, the more he's missed.
I'm sure I saw him last Tuesday in the hotel parking garage,
head bowed, familiar blue suede shoes. He swirls razor hips,
struts and points to bright white light over the exit. Searches
for center stage slowly revolving without him.
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