Indigenous Elvis at the Airport

Indigenous Elvis works security:

Chief Joseph hair, blue-black and pomped,

turquoise and shell dangling from one ear,

silver chunks of rings on every bronze knuckle.

Indigenous Elvis works security:

X-ray glances at your backpacks,

laptops, empty still-moist shoes.

Indigenous Elvis waves me to his line.

A perfect gentlemen at all times,

gingerly lifting my naked phone,

holding the line as I return my computer

and extra undies to my briefcase.

Next line, next flight, Indigenous Elvis eases in

too close, asks, “Where you headed

this time?”

Subtle tango, I lean away, wondering what it is

he saw first gave me away—

My beaded barrettes in their travel case?

A slight turn to my eyes?

Oh, mortification when I get him!

Indigenous Elvis, at security, a third time.

He lifts my carry-on,

maneuvers my hand, gestures me close to ask,

“How is my sweetheart?”

Then against my neck, so my hairs rise

with his sight, “How’s my sweetheart doing …

your sister … ?

… the one that got away.”