WEBVTT

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"Young Elvis."

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"He's driving a truck and
we know what he knows.

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His sweat and hips--" I'm
sorry, "his sweat and hips

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move the wrong product.

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In Memphis, behind a
thick pane of glass,

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a stranger daydreams
of a voice as tough

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as the Negro's,
but not a Negro's.

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A voice that slaps instead
of twangs, but not a Negro's.

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When it struts through
the door like he

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knows it will and opens up,

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rides the spiky
strings of the guitar,

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pushes the bass
line below the belt,

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reveals the drums for the cheap
pimps they really are, in fact

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transforms the entire
proceedings into a cat house.

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A lost night.

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He wets his lips.

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Already the young driver
is imagining a 20th century

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birthday present.

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The one sharp lock of
his recorded voice.

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The awe he intends to shine
through her favorite hymns."