I felt like I was seeing fireflies—getting little glints,
you know, of what’s behind the regular.
Maybe it was the rivets on his suit,
the sunset beaming in the picture window of Harding’s Market.
I was standing in line with a full cart,
ice cream for my grandkids, bread for the freezer, etcetera.
He was in front of me, head ducked under,
hair flopping, paying four dollars for fuses, I think.
He had on a white motorcycle suit,
helmet on the counter.
I’ve never been much of a Elvis fan,
but when you see someone, you know who it is.
Nothing to say about it.
What would I have gained, saying anything?
Put fireflies in a jar—you’ve got bugs
in a jar, dull tails flashing now and then.
When you drive down a road, though, through fireflies,
they look like an eye opening as you pass between.
I wasn’t surprised he was alive.
My nephew getting married—that surprised me.
But Elvis—once a person’s all over in movies and records,
I don’t think he knows when to stop.
I wouldn’t go for a ride on his motorcycle if he asked me.
But when I came out and he was gone, my feet hurt
and I felt tired, useless, like I’ve always
been going toward something I can’t ever get to.