The King

I once had Elvis in the back of my cab.

I said I was pleased the rumours were true,

it was an honour to be carrying the living King.

U-hu, he replied, as if remembering who he was.

He asked for Lonely Street.

I laughed.

He didn’t.

I once drove me a truck down in Tupelo, Mississippi, 

he said, out of nowhere.

I was a runner-up in a look-a-like contest singing Jailhouse Rock, 

I said.

There was little more conversation.

I waived the fare. He signed my CD.

He pulled his giant collar

against the November wind,

howling like a hound dog.

I should’ve shepherded him up the stairs,

tripping all the way to Heartbreak Hotel.