They tell me that Elvis is dead,
they showed me the carefully
snipped out press cuttings
they had saved since
the dreadful news broke,
back in ’77, every line
preserved, poured over,
taken out every now and then
and the days of tears that follow,
a single one
slowly drifting down the face
when it hurt too much
as I see them close the thumbed
to death, barely hanging on scrapbooks
and draws and bloated cupboards of memorabilia;
floods when the grief of Elvis
tenderly singing down their ear
caught their breath
and the shadows of their eyes
misted over as they hoped
to renew the image in their heart…
They tell me Elvis is dead,
from where I stand, it surely
cannot be true.
Ian D. Hall 2018