Tragic Comedy

The next day
Crisp morning air
Flowed across Elvis's skin
In comforting assurance
Telling him things
Would get better
And for a moment
He believed it

Walking to the corner store
In flip-flops and pajama pants
And his Punk Rod leather jacket
With salvation on his mind
The kind of salvation
Only a bottle can bring

He walked into
A full fledged Rat Race
The Friday hustle and bustle
Work trucks getting gas
Laborers inside
Buying snacks and coffee
He could feel their eyes
Burning holes in his tattooed feathers
The good lord only knows
What they thought of him
But he didn't give one single fuck
Never did never will
Their brand of "living"
Is a Tragic Comedy to him

©2018 James Dennis Casey IV

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