Anni Nubiles

We thunked down in Britain, the massive tyres
absorbing the weight, giving, recovering.
I'd never been on a plane before,
much less as a ribbon on the kite
of a real rock 'n' roll tour.
And he was so great and so cute
and I thought man, are the others
ever gonna be jealous. Little Myra
on the arm of the Next Elvis.
They'd already said to hang back
when we went through Arrivals,
so the girls hollering him
like hammered brakes
wouldn't know
that he wasn't available. I understood
even then about The Image, that ghost
that could wrap a million bedroom walls
or drown a man,
that was fragile like a salt shell.

He took off his ring for the parade
and I followed after the band, the managers,
the photographers, the girl who made the coffee.
Everyone mad in love
with Jerry, none more so than me,
so when a blot of a journalist snagged my arm,
demanded "Hey sugar, you his niece? Daughter?"
I burst with pride, laughed "his wife"
and walked on, unaware
how quickly the confetti could disappear.