T. S. Kerrigan
"Elvis kissed me once," she swears,
sitting in a neon dive
ordering her drinks in pairs.
Two stools down you nurse a beer,
sensing easy pickings here.
"Back in sixty-eight," she sighs,
smoothing back her yellow hair.
Teared mascara smears her eyes.
Drawing near, you claim you've met,
offer her a cigarette.
"Call me cheap," she sobs, "or bad
say that decent men dismissed me,
say I've lost my looks, but add
Elvis kissed me."
*
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