Moving a Divorcee and Her Kids across State Lines

by on November 10, 2011 :: 0 comments

The time was five-thirty,
I woke with a start;
Something was following
My mama’s sure cart.
Shifting from “park” to “drive,”
She toggled to speed,
Pumped hard on the gas,
Mom gave little heed.

Behind us a mammoth,
A terror in measure,
With hinged, metal wings,
Which held fast to our treasure
The bulk of that weirdness,
Its preponderance,
Approached our back bumper,
Threatened to compress.

Mom dove and she darted,
She jumped lanes at great pace,
Yet that overgrown beasty
Well matched our pure haste.
With lights like grand eyeballs,
A windshield as mouth,
It adamantly tailgated
Three states to the south.

Then, deep into the night
In a neighborhood new
With that monster behind us,
We kids did construe
A federal license
A driver or more,
Our cash, our possessions,
The complete “country store.”

They’d been able to link
Our past life to the present,
Had managed to help
Make our changeover pleasant.
With wide eyes we watched
The wine being poured
As cartons and boxes
Transversed our front porch.

editors note:

It’s a crime show, an action movie, a soap opera, a documentary – better’n TV or a Gothic novel. I was worried, too, up ’til the wine flowed. All is well when the wine flows. – mh

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