Memphis Resurrection

Who died and made you Elvis? —Bumper sticker The big rock by my door is a plaster prop, after all. I’m back to hear screams for what I can’t do, couldn’t do forty years ago. Awkward pelvic thrusts fooled the camera and virgins, but I have no more fish- fry tunes left to dress up on brand new plates. This time around, I spend all day singing cracked Mississippi homilies. Why did I want to live forever in the first place? Salvation felt better dead, floating home free while my bones, secret and brown, mingle with old dirt.