Elvis

Those who recall Elvis dying,
nine-eleven, y-2-k,
ask: 'Where were you in twenty-twenty?'
Do you remember?
Do you remember?

Everyone knows:
with everyone else.
With everyone else.
With everything else.

We all became Elvis,
locked behind the pearly gates
of Graceland, staring out
from our windows of gilt and marble
at the empty streets,
the tumbles of dust in the sunshine,
nature's ash,
eager to stain our white rhinestone suits.

The applause were the rattle of tumbleweeds,
the tick of wheat against fence,
the rasp of air in throat.

In twenty-twenty we all left the building.
Two in every hundred went to Graceland forever.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.