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Show Blue Run/73 Lee, and maybe somebody knock in who'd known Elvis, who'd maybe touched the cuff of his sleeve that time he was in Little Rock before the Central High mess, somebody who could appreciate that I'd caught his eye once, those deep baby blues, and that he'd called me honey under his breath and let his lips brush the lobe of my right ear. I'd breathed the essence of the man-a truck driver, for Jesus sake, like O.W., only he could dance. And that voice that made us all love-sick. So my mind has got onto Elvis Presley and I'm not yet thirty-seven, and that one year makes all the difference in the world, believe me. I'm at the edge of the new world, sensing change, maybe, like how you sniff vibrations in the air when a Mack truck is speeding your way, the sun going jack-o-lantern orange on the chrome-dog hood ornament. In the rearview, my face, the me I used to be. And Elvis's low voice has got into my head with this hippy music and my heart 's beating and my body starts. You see, I love to dance All my life I've loved to dance, just let go, dance all night, dance a little longer. A frosty morning, the white van and Joey's yellow Pinto the only vehicles in the lot, with that maple putting on a show-Elvis in its sap, in its taproot. Don't lose this moment, I'm thinking-the thumpa-thump in my blood, one for the money, two for the show, that's what I'm hearing, how I carry it around in my head. And before I know, I'm outside on the asphalt in front of the Methodist church's newlywed tree, shaking my fanny, maple leaves falling into my hair, dreamy and love-sick. That's how it started, with me kind of spilling out the Pinto door in a groove. "Go sister." the van driver says out the window and I recognize her straight away, one of the girls I work with, her fingers stained as Aristotle Red as my own, a little pink scar over one eyebrow. |
