by Wayne Crawford
I see Elvis in my dreams,
his low-cut shirt exposes
beads of sweat across his chest,
each a token of love. He smears them
with his palm, raises his hand to us,
his viewers, his fingers covered with prayer.
He sings, "Let there be peace in the valley."
I see Elvis in his GI haircut.
An announcer informs us:
Elvis has left the auditorium.
I wake to coffee, turn on
the television. Barbara Bush
is asked which American leader
she has most admired during her
life time. She answers, "George Bush."
No beads of sweat surround her
familiar neck, instead a string of white pearls.
Her son, George W., speaks
from the White House,
beads of sweat stick to his upper lip. He
swipes them away with the side of his hand,
points to us, his viewers, his fingers covered
with oil, strings clearly attached.
Wayne Crawford's poetry has appeared in many journals, Sin Fronteras, Las Cruces Writers and Poets, Language Arts, and Aethelon: Journal of Sports Literature, among them. He is the Editor of Lunarosity.
