Elvis Jesus and Your Memory at Walmart
Left toothbrush-less,
mine pilfered along with shampoo
deodorant, razors and other such
found me wasted in Walmart
thieving gnomes at the last homeless shelter
being my main suspects
His name tag said ELVIS
greeting customers at the gate
navigating shopping cart jockeys
with cherubs riding shotgun
My request for location of items
is answered Presley style:
“Past Housewares,” he Hound-Dog
lip curled in reply
Among waffle irons and toasters
in an aisle devoid of housewife print skirts
your memory purchased my thoughts
forging past bedding, linen sheets
how we once tangled and ravaged
Is that your image disappearing
into Lingerie
JESUS on his employee name badge
suffering from price tag neurosis
“Love potion? We don’t sell that
vagabundo polo,” he growled
beneath picante breath
You told me I could find everything
I needed here, but not even Walmart
has what it would take
to make you love me again
I sure hope Target
is still open!
Horror Sleaze Trash 