A row of three men. No. Flashes of brightness then darkness scissoring them, illuminating only their waists to their knees, that same light slicing my chest, revealing the TAFT patch sewn into the borrowed fatigues. Elvis, singing. Well, that’s all right, mama, that’s all right for you. No no. A girl on her knees, her head bobbing at the waist of the center man. That’s all right, mama, just anyway you do. Her hair long and blonde.
