Girls wrestle in white panties at Graceland
for the benefit of Elvis:
C’mon, girls, ya’ll get rough with each other.
Good Dr. Nick has given enough pills
to make The King a bloated wisp of what
he was. Christmastime. And his fans

have trapped him in his mansion. Fans
flock to see decorations at Graceland.
The gaudy tourists know not what
lies behind the locked door. Elvis,
imperial on the couch, popping pills
as the young girls romp with one another.

Some think Elvis lost it when his mother
Gladys died. Grief, wiggling its hips, fans
his fetishes. There are not enough pills,
not enough Cadillacs parked at Graceland
to fill the vacancy in Elvis.
He has become a Vegas shade of what

he used to be. He tries to forget what
it was like to be that younger, other,
Ann-Margret-screwing Elvis.
The icon who could cause the fans
to faint, to climb over the wall at Graceland.
Now it is the couch and the 25 pills

a day. Amphetamines, downers,
painkillers—Elvis gladly takes whatever
Dr. Nick will give. Holed up in Graceland
cleaning his guns, one after another,
he shoots the TV. A King is no fan
of Robert Goulet. O Elvis,

drug-addled and swollen Elvis,
abandon the girls in their underwear, pills
on your tongue, heavy pinkie rings. Your fans
would cry Elvis! Elvis! instead of What’s
wrong with the King?
They would embrace each other
while waiting in the rain outside Graceland.

You lay in the pill-womb of Graceland
while fate fanned your fame, Elvis.
What America adores, she devours. And so she looks for another.