Elvis Lives! He has
abdicated His Kingship,
and works in ‘Mr. Goodbuy’,
a dollar store in a suburban strip mall.
He’s still recognizable:
His pompadour is greying,
His eyes seem less blue.
His paunch still swaddles him
under his casual jumpsuit
and cardigan. He rarely wears
sequin costumes anymore
on flood-lit stages.
In late middle age, He
karokes at local watering holes,
parodies Himself, shimmies His
arthritic hips like a discus
until He throws his back out
at banquets and legion halls
but for brief moments in time
flashbacks run like stock footage
in Ed Sullivan grays.
And at his shop, his day job
He says:
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
solemnly, in humble Tupelo-ese
as if He had just finished singing, or as if
it were vespers, and
He was praying.
But enough have made the pilgrimage
to Graceland to believe that
Elvis is dead, and that this is
the caricature of yet another
counterfeit, who
is no more Elvis than His
ceramic likeness for sale
by the cash register, or the
paint-by-number
velvet Elvises diehard
zealots hang as tapestry—
It’s a brilliant disguise, really.