"Young Elvis."
"He's driving a truck and we know what he knows.
His sweat and hips--" I'm sorry, "his sweat and hips
move the wrong product.
In Memphis, behind a thick pane of glass,
a stranger daydreams of a voice as tough
as the Negro's, but not a Negro's.
A voice that slaps instead of twangs, but not a Negro's.
When it struts through the door like he
knows it will and opens up,
rides the spiky strings of the guitar,
pushes the bass line below the belt,
reveals the drums for the cheap pimps they really are, in fact
transforms the entire proceedings into a cat house.
A lost night.
He wets his lips.
Already the young driver is imagining a 20th century
birthday present.
The one sharp lock of his recorded voice.
The awe he intends to shine through her favorite hymns."