Drivin’ to Aunt Rhodie’s by Ann Howells

            response to Tony Hoagland’s “Driving South”

Mama called it sultry. Dad said damned hot.
But a never-endin’ bazaar sprawled roadside
along the molten highway
entertainin’ us kids with all kindsa ticky-tack:
broken-down pickups backed up to discount stores
with forklifts heftin’ huge crates into ‘em,  
dealership cars sparklin’ like gold teeth,
little quick-buys Mama called convenience stores
and Dad called Stop and Robs.
We counted white crosses where people died –
Who’d commemorate that? Mama asked,
but Dad wasn’t listenin’. He was grumblin’  
traffic stacked like planes over Atlanta,
likely some geezer zippin’ along at twenty-five
in a big ole sky blue Cadillac.
That’s when, Mama leaned over and whispered
The rest stops have armed guards!
Dad snarled to protect us from the residents!  
And we did notice several shifty-looking men,
faces flashin’ blue-white, blue-white
as police pinned ‘em flat against their car.
Finally, we turned off on a rutted road
that branched like veins in Dad’s nose –
miles of crumblin’ macadam broken
only by flattened roadkill. We breathed exhaust
billowin’ out from behind a rusty car
held together only by primer and bailing wire,
but we got there.

When Aunt Rhodie woke after her second nap,
Dad said It’s been real nice, but it’s ‘bout time
fer us to hit the road. Mama said the car
feltm like climbin’ into a pressure cooker.
Dad agreed that he could prob’ly
fricassee a rattlesnake right there on the dash,,
which reminded him, he was powerful hungry,
and Who wants to stop at Dairy Queen?