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Me, Elvis, Scotty, Fats, and the Rest of the World

John T. Hitchner

A warm Saturday night,
August, 1956:
Downstairs, my parents and their friends
snap down cards, push pennies, nickels, and dimes
across a Michigan Rummy board.
Upstairs, room dark, radio alive
with “Mystery Train,” Elvis’s cry
and Scotty Moore’s licks
tease nerves never touched in me before.
Will Elvis sing it on Ed Sullivan next month?
I burn to move in my life
like Elvis and Scotty do.
They break boundaries
and laugh along the way:
Come on! We’ll figure things out somehow.

I think of my girlfriend,
her just-right body against mine
with my arms around her.
I know about boundaries—
We haven’t talked about them.
It’s unspoken where I can put my hands
when we kiss in the balcony
or beneath the trees in her yard.
When we pull apart
it’s like going into separate rooms
with doors locked behind us.

Now, downstairs,
card table legs snap into place,
friends call “Thanks! Goodnight!”
Walls, chairs, and tables
will gather my parents’ voices.
Now on radio
Fats Domino wails a thrill
on Blueberry Hill,
a love never to be.

Life: Loss and restrictions.
You find your way in and out of tunnels.
The Mystery Train’s a long black train,
Scotty’s licks temporary as a 45 RPM.
You never really fall asleep
without drifting toward the next tunnel.

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