My mother loved Elvis like he was a Kennedy
hanging black velvet eyes soft as a wolverine
crossed the sitting room in a silent laser.

Was it the G.I. Blues made her stain
the Fairlane in red house paint
and circle the high school flagpole

in a War Is Hell screech? She sang
My Bucket’s Got a Hole in It when
the governor taxed her tips,

might’ve crooned Love Me Tender
when I was at school, my brother
at war, and Pa on the road.

The new kid from Illinois hid under
my bed for fear she’d hear Chubby
Checker and Dee Dee Sharp
and come storming up the stairs,
but she stepped over our shoes
in a Blue Hawaii smile and asked,

“What’s wrong with The King?”