This is a poem written by my Faribault Fools cohort Peter Allen. Peter and I met at the home of a mutual friend of ours on New Years Eve 2012. He had an idea of starting a poetry writers group where people could get together and read their poems for each other, share writing ideas and friendly critique. We started meeting the following February and so have been meeting monthly for a year now. The name, “Faribault Fools” was Peters idea, after the town we live in and apparently, after us as well.
Peter is a great guy. He has lived a lot of life and is now retired, a “house husband” he claims. I like his writing style. This is one he wrote recently and he is now working on his first book of poetry.
Down around Front Royal in Virginia
by the Blue Ridge Mountains
of joy and delight
my mother was looking for iron,
looking for fry pans and Dutch Ovens,
the best for cooking the way she did.
Mom would stop at some shack and offer
the lady ten bucks. She might buy
one or two if they weren’t cracked.
I did my due diligence,
packed the car like a Beverly
Hillbilly, the back seat full
of heavy things, the floor rusting
through. She was drinking
and driving when I was counting
phone poles just over the county line.
The seraphs and archangels were
light and lively, all the heavenly
hosts in a country nuzzle
when the highway patrol was
behind, lights flashing us
over on a two lane highway
with a southern drawl.
He said we been swerving
and my mother told him
she was worried sick about
my sisters, about the money,
about her husband philandering.
The patrolman said, “Worry
about your son and slow down.”
I was the navigator
looking to get home before we
crashed and pots and pans came through
the windshield when paradise
was sparkling all around.