Mama, it’s too dark at
12 in the afternoon—
Elvis says he wants you.
Elvis, he says he needs you, says he loves you;
but not as goddamned badly as I do.
In this midnight daylight I feel five years old,
wondering why I can’t have you back.
I asked pretty please with sugar on top.
I promised I’d be good if you’d just wake up.
But you stay sleeping, and Elvis stays singing
the stupid fucking songs that he didn’t even write.
He’s gonna stick like glue,
because he’s stuck on you.
I’m stuck on you, too. Stuck on summers spent
in Tawas, when you wore permed hair and
smelled like Moore cigarettes. I’m stuck on
your smile, and your eyes squinted in the face of the sun.
I’m stuck on the way you would pronounce my name—
a mispronunciation most ironic.
I’m stuck on your expressions, and mannerisms.
I’m stuck on the sound of your laughter when you laughed
when you knew you not ought to.
I’m stuck on the absence of you.
And I’m lonesome tonight.