By Chance Cordwainer
kick the can
a sweaty Elvis Presley
in plush silver paisley
gyrates his aging hips
frog hopping head first
legs bent at right angles
muffling firetruck exhaust
with the bark of retarded Dalmatians
reverberating off the can
putting down the blaze
that had threatened to engulf
the entire gulf region
Midlands Bible belt buckle
proudly cinched about his waist
He had no fiddle to be sure
he was found face down
at the bottom of the pool
singing his life away
to the last of his fans
that sat enthralled
listening intently
at the other end of the pipe
straining to feel for him
liked he’d done for them
when it was just them
with a hand of lathered soap
mumbling hymns to God
Clutching at Straws 