The problem with Elvis...
is that he was trapped
in an electric-pink clock that hanged on
the wall of my psychologist's office.
His glossy charcoal hair was slick
with the exception of one strand
that dangled over his marbled forehead of perfection.
In his tan jacket and dark slacks,
he clicked off the seconds with his famous pelvis
and flashed me a Colgate smile.
His impeccable image mocked my tearstained face and crumpled tissues.
Certainly he never had to fight battles
with an army as small as mine.
With the luxury of fame and the freedom of money,
his worries were non-existent
unless you count
the drugs,
or the food,
or his blue suede shoes.
For unknown reasons,
he and I ended up in the very same office.
Maybe the Elvis clock was on sale at Target.
Maybe I simply needed a hug.
In either case,
I smiled,
and my psychologist scribbled this fact
on yellow paper.
is that he was trapped
in an electric-pink clock that hanged on
the wall of my psychologist's office.
His glossy charcoal hair was slick
with the exception of one strand
that dangled over his marbled forehead of perfection.
In his tan jacket and dark slacks,
he clicked off the seconds with his famous pelvis
and flashed me a Colgate smile.
His impeccable image mocked my tearstained face and crumpled tissues.
Certainly he never had to fight battles
with an army as small as mine.
With the luxury of fame and the freedom of money,
his worries were non-existent
unless you count
the drugs,
or the food,
or his blue suede shoes.
For unknown reasons,
he and I ended up in the very same office.
Maybe the Elvis clock was on sale at Target.
Maybe I simply needed a hug.
In either case,
I smiled,
and my psychologist scribbled this fact
on yellow paper.