Elvis
By Richard Merelman
(from a taped interview at Sophie’s, a nightclub in Little Rock, Arkansas, 1976)
Memory Lane, I say; exactly
twenty years tonight. She laughs,
sips ginger ale. No hard stuff
anymore; heart murmur, she says, tapping
her chest. Then: Wasn’t Elvis wild?
Barely older than she was:
twenty-one to her eighteen. But the difference!
She’d learned the fox trot, the cha cha.
Never imagined a man could shake his hips
like that, widen his thighs, invite
anyone in. That’s All Right, Mama:
she’d snuck a transistor under
her bed, listened to Arthur Crudup’s version
on KOKY, the Black station in town.
But Elvis up there on the Robinson stage
hair flying every which way,
swiveling parts of his body
she didn’t even know existed.
His voice: sulky, spiky, and…
what’s the word … yearning.
The tune she liked best was Mystery Train,
how the rhythm built, how—as the song faded—
he slid clear across the floor, like he’d glimpsed a vision
of the Promised Land. The other girls jumped and squealed.
She rose slowly, stood apart. He noticed her,
locked eyes with her. After the show
he autographed her program; she inhaled
his sweat, moved close enough almost to taste it.
He jotted Elvis Presley, paused, printed
in block letters Don’t be cruel.
What does she think about Elvis now,
it being 1976 and all?
Well, she’s on her third husband. Of the three
none have kindled her wick
like Elvis. She wonders if Elvis
had skipped Little Rock, would she
have been kinder to her husbands.
She whispers don’t be cruel.
About the Author
Richard Merelman is Professor of Political Science, (Emeritus) University of Wisconsin, Madison, where he published articles and books on culture and politics in Western democracies. He has published four volumes of poetry, of which the most recent, A Door Opens (Fireweed 2020), received an Outstanding Achievement Award in 2021 from the Wisconsin Library Association. He has published poems in Stoneboat, Lake Effect, 3rd Wednesday, The Road Not Taken, descant, Raven, and Main Street Rag, among others.
