The Elvis impersonator slouches like a dethroned god, Leather creased, gold-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. He grips the wheel like a gambler on his last hand, Knuckles white, dashboard burning a churchyard glow. Outside, the neon blurs into a drunken kaleidoscope— Billboards for lost causes, motels selling empty rooms. The windshield warps the world: Blue frost, red haze, A limbo carved from old songs and missed connections. His foot rests easy on the pedal, A king no more, But still the driver of his own funeral procession. The radio crackles to life—static, Then a voice: A little less conversation, a little more action. And he laughs. The kind of laugh that sounds like a tomb cracking open, Because the joke's on everyone but him.