Requiem for a Flying Elvis
by Gilbert Allen

    Ridiculous
    and so like us
    failed birds! Even Poe
    couldn't crow
    at your chute
    gone kaput.

    Your heart broke
    as you struck
    that orange hell
    of a hotel
    rooftop in June
    at low noon.

    Your likenesses, blown
    east, tried to drown
    in salt water.

    At this altar
    I imagine
    their broad sequin-

    studded suits, white
    as limelight--
    your casket sure
    on each shoulder
    bearing you, bearing
    itself to a roosting

    where every Joe
    will finally know
    where The King is
    what The King knows.







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