Elvis In The Rest Home

Her lips are crimping a kiss.
They limpet the husky air
like definitions of stealth.
Stuck like glue, she hums,
resting her head upon absence,
a corner of torn lullaby
caught on her mouth's red barb,
because I'm Stuck On You.

The past's a flimsy bivouac
where lovers and young children
huddle to brush her cheek
with soft streams of smoke.
Her hand scrapes the silence,
pecking helplessly as
into the dim vicinity
feints the blear of his face.

Not that her rented memory
is empty of marrow yet:
it's now or never, she thinks,
caressing the wizen echo
with the nubs of her knuckles.
Prinking her lips, she touches
his head's hushed dunder,
calling come hear me cry.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday