Sunglasses
His shoulders were boulders four fatherless kids climbed on. He never cracked a smile but we all watched him crack August, 16, 1977 when he lost his king. The sight of tears in the eyes of our mountain was an earthquake in our chests. His priorities got all shook up. He quit his job picked up a guitar a gallon of sarcasm and took to the road. Now he hides deadpan eyes behind mirrored sunglasses stamped Graceland ‘78, when he still rode his motorcycle without a helmet, and though he slept in a different bed every night, he never slept alone- he just scraped love from the bottom of his boots every morning. Those sunglasses are a time machine that cover the spider webs around his eyes, and deflect any attempt to see inside. He slides them on and stands there man from another time a velvet Elvis, ready for another show but where did the audience go? He denies wrinkles on the hands that play his guitar, and he wonders why the twenty-something girls don’t look his way anymore. Night after ni