Literary Yard

Search for meaning

‘The Pelvis’ and other poems

By: Wayne F. Burke

The Pelvis

It was almost always Elvis
every Saturday afternoon
at the theater:
Elvis as race car driver
Elvis as cowboy
Elvis as convict
and at least one scene
Elvis as tough guy
though he did not look tough
kind of prissy looking
and like maybe he got his hair cut
at the beauty parlor
but in the movie he duked it out,
held his own, and
in the next scene his hair
scarcely mussed
face unmarked
he’d sing, snap his fingers
and shake the pelvis
while some chick
next to him would
wiggle her rear end
and you knew she wanted
whatever Elvis had, wanted
it bad, and wherever Elvis
wanted to put it
too, but after the song
she’d disappear and
Elvis would be back with the
good girl, potential wife, and
little-Elvis maker, and
while Elvis may not
have looked tough
he definitely looked
cool, you had to give him
that much.



Some cock and bull story
from a guy in the park
about his car
out of gas
stranded and with a pregnant girlfriend
at home—
he says if I loan him something
he will pay me back double
ha ha
“pretty good story,” I say.
“It is true,” he says.
I ask what make of car, and
he tells me.
Where is the car? What is the
make of the car?
How will he get gasoline into the car?
He has all the answers, maybe
had them memorized, who
I reach for my wallet,
peek inside.
Just my luck: nothing but twenties.
I give him one and
watch him walk off…
I kiss that sawbuck goodbye.



Debra Barone from the television show
trying to shove her hand down the
front of my pants—
I tell her better not
what if Raymond comes home?

“Oh that jerk,” she says.

Marie Barone appears, says
“oh my, what are you doing Debra?”

Deb: Mind your own business, Marie.
Marie: (leaving) I can’t wait until Frank
comes home!
Deb: (eating a hot dog) I wish I had some

I search my pocket for mustard.
Find a bill from the electric company
for $1.23



He stands behind the cash register, says
“Will that be all, Sir?”
“I already said it was ‘all.’”
“Well, I did not hear you.”
“Well open your ears.”
He rings us the sandwich, takes my
“Thank you very much Sir.”
I pick up the sandwich from the counter.
“You have a good day, Sir.”
“Eat shit.”
“Excuse me?”
Eat shit and die, counter-boy.”
He turns his back to me.
I ought to wait for the peckerwood
outside, and then punch him in the face.
But how to explain?
My fight against the robots.


oh fucking typo
you’ve ruined my
I hate your guts
you suck
so do I


Wayne F. Burke’s poetry and prose has been widely published in print and online (including in THE LITERARY YARD). He is author of 8 published poetry collections, one short story collection, and a nonfiction work titled HENRY MILLER, Spirit & Flesh (, 2022). He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2022, and previously for Best of the Net. He lives in the state of Vermont, USA.


  1. No one writes accessible poetry like Wayne. After reading through several poems in other magazines and finding no poems that move me it’s always a thrill to see new poems of his posted. And sure enough, I laughed out loud by the time I reached the end of the last one. This is why I buy Wayne’s books. His poetry always hits the mark!!

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