It was him, Elvis, sheepishly
stepping out of the outhouse,
looking better than ever, the way
some old men slim down and loosen
their lines. He had left the door open,
the lid slightly ajar on the women’s
hole. As usual, I forgave him
everything. I acted normal, as if
I hadn’t been waiting under the trees,
last night’s full chamber pot
balanced in my hand. I could have
said at any point in my life
that he was the one I was waiting for,
looking sleepily down from the stage,
seeing but not seeing me,
granting me reprieve in an instant
from my life, but holding me in it
like a star. It’s like if you ask
for Jesus, Jesus comes. It’s never
the way you think. There he was,
hair flopped over his eyes,
coming out of the last outhouse left
along the lake, and it there
only because of the grandfather clause.
This was the end of our history
together, all that strangeness
in the crotch, the pulse hammering
the bass line, real life and art
straining to fuse, to end all
history. I was hearing in my mind
Won’t you wear my ring,
around your neck? but it sounded
like the sweet core of good taste,
saddened down to honky-tonk.
“Excuse me,” he said. “The older I get,
the more often I have to pee.”
I agreed. I might have been humming
to myself, sometimes I don’t know
when I’m doing it. I can be
treble and bass at the same time.