I swear to God in heaven, to my father and
To Elvis Presley, all I was raised by and love
With the best, fullest, and most childish belief.
I promise you, as every season eventually envelops the other,
Sending one sealed, off and away, like a water bill paid too late,
With that small and silent prayer of a quick delivery.
That I will stop looking for him.

Into the farthest reaches of my skull,
He will be shoved. His limbs crammed and broken,
Into that dusty antique store of my mind.
I won’t even recall his Dewar’s and water,
His obsession with Andrew Bird or whoever,
or Whatever, his eye color is long-gone from me, it was
Maybe a dark, seaweedy green or brown and plaided
Like the soft sweater he wore on our one-year anniversary,
The one we spent vacationing in Grenada, where we
Played bingo with those forgotten people, in a place
made up on shit-hotels and parking lots. It was the best, still.
By the sultan of Blues music, by the October nights alone,
By all of this, I will forget all of him.