The summer Elvis died, Emily and I
huddled together on the bed in this same motel
as rain spanked the pink neon seahorse sign
and our eyes stuck to the glowing blue tube,
watching pictures of a man in a white suit glitter by,
eavesdropping on our parents’ whispers of a dead king,
taking their own sweet time over martinis and cigarettes
as our stomachs growled angrily
and our sunburns left us shivering.

Now as the sun sets on this town by the shore,
we steer clear of the kids laughing and smashing
into their mothers' and fathers’ bumper cars,
the crowds shuffling down the boards and
stuffing their faces with cotton-candy clouds;
we slot our pills into their colorful plastic boxes
and slug our Diet Cokes, trying our best to conjure happy memories
but distracted by the rattling air-conditioner that seems to hiss at us,
Still cold, still hungry.