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 night he smokes alone
watches pay-per-view, and
makes love to a bottle of beer.

The years he’s forgotten
are not nearly as disturbing
as the moments he remembers.

In a sober moment
he takes the sunglasses off
and stares at the stranger he’s become
but quickly slides them back on
and vows to be buried in them.

_________________________________________

The man in the poem is sort of a composite of some musicians and truck drivers I have known over the years. It began as a writing prompt to use the title of an Elvis song in a poem.  

I am sorry that you caught Covid in Europe. I hope it wasn't too miserable. I got it back in August, but since I was vaxed and boosted, it was very mild.