No Rainchecks, No Refunds - poem

NO RAINCHECKS, NO REFUNDS

When Elvis lay dying in Graceland
did he think of his fans, the recording sessions,
all the future dates permanently X'ed off his calendar?
I don't think so. I think
he wanted time for one more peanut butter and banana sandwich.
I think he wanted Lisa Marie there
like a tall, cool glass of homogenized,
wholesome-like. Because in the end
it's the daily, the discarded,
the relentlessly run-of-the-mill
that add up to what's real.
Swinging by Graceland,
breathing in all that beautiful Elvis crapola --
I wanted it too.
But I'd have kept one promise to myself
while breaking too many others.

***

In another script it's all of us
on a mythic powerglide towards Graceland.
Towards Graceland, where the King is bought and sold
a thousand times every day,
where the women cry real tears
and the men stand grim before his grave
and the unflinching flame
punctuating the Glory That Was, and Is.
But in this story we never get there.
There's no before, no after -- just now,
the promise burning bright,
the moon above us, the road unwinding below,
and 300 horses under the hood
trying hard to outrun all the disappointment in this life.
That's a good story.

But so is this one.
It's about having to say no, sorry,
but I have to go home. Someone's waiting,
And in this version I'm happy too.
My heart's an open throttle gunning down every highway,
running full-tilt and close to the line
because you've shown me once more
that anything's possible.
Tonight, no matter which way I turn,
all roads lead to the eternal flame.

for Monica and Ray