The Moya View

Ode to a Peanut Butter Elvis


Elvis loved his peanut butter.


Gladys, who loved him the most,

as all good mothers love their children,

would feed him grilled Hawaiian bread

sandwich after sandwich of peanut butter

with chopped caramelized bananas,

or gently mashed fork bananas,

sometimes with bacon, sometimes without.


He dreamed of peanut butter and

Gladys would feed those dreams

with Fool’s Gold loaves made each of

one pound peanut butter, jelly and bacon

lovingly folded, like Graceland,

into  two foot slices of Italian bread,

cut by Gladys into pyramids

so the crusty part would never

hurt her Little King’s mouth.


He would go to bed with peanut butter

on his breath, on the roof of his mouth,

his tongue pressed to his palate so

that the peanut butter would never dissolve.

He would greet the dawn with

peanut butter morning breath,

peanut butter on his lips and

peanut butter cloud swirls on his cheeks,

peanut butter like ant trails on

his satin pillow cases and King size sheets.


Gladys would be in the kitchen

plopping a tablespoon of buttery

peanut butter into  a skillet

before adding two eggs and Canadian bacon.


The peanut butter shaving cream Elvis used

would still be on his neck and Gladys

would kiss it off in vampire pecks

that still made him squirm.

She would curl his cow lick

in place, as she kissed his forehead

smelling the scent of the peanut butter

pomade that gelled his beautiful pompadour.


And when she died, and he died,

it was those peanut butter kisses

he missed the most in his world.





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