By Hans Ostrom
They call each other 'E.' Elvis picks
wildflowers near the river and brings
them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.
In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers
and T-shirts, a letterman's jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.
Emily's poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard
Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.
Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing 'I Taste A Liquor
Never Brewed' to the tune of 'Love Me Tender.'
Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they'll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst
or Las Vegas. They know why God made them
roommates. It's because America
was their hometown. It's because
God is a thing without
feathers. It's because
God wears blue suede shoes.
I had a fun Wednesday, as usual mostly online -- I talked to my high school friends for over two hours in the morning, took a break for lunch and a look at the eagles, then watched the first hour of Spider-Man: Far From Home with Kristen, which I've only seen a couple of times so I'd forgotten how funny it is. After that, we walked to the beach and admired some waterfowl, then ate dinner.
Now we have finished White Collar, which I'm glad ended when it did, before they started recycling any more plots, but I really enjoyed and will miss! Now we're watching Fellow Travelers, in which Matt Bomer is truly wonderful and so is Jonathan Bailey, but oh, it's hard to watch (and I've watched Bomer die of AIDS in The Normal Heart. One of the coyotes at Wolf Haven International: