Requiem for a Flying Elvis
by Gilbert Allen

    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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