Passing through St. Joe
After C.D. Wright’s “The Night I Met Little Floyd”
along the spine of Searcy County—tickle-crawl up the Ozark slopes—past Marshall
and its motel breakfasts—past Leslie and its peaches sold by prophets with cardboard
signs—plenty time to kill—Highway 65 strapped to late summer—new town every
blink and barbecue breath—zip code off by one number—till round the bend—little
boys’ hearts set on bluffs—time turns cooler in the shade of St. Joe—bare feet on
crushed zinc from those mid-century days—we take the curves slow in a forest green
minivan—we sip in open land tessellating through auto tint—all about that simple
life—brother says look at that—points at the sign reads “St. Joe: Home of the Wildcats”--
we dreamed of bobcats—the real deal no blue-and-white caricatures—the real deal
in the hills—cougar panther puma mountain lion any of ‘em—St. Joe, Arkansas--
population 142—single schoolhouse will do—none of us say it—dividing fractions
with that empty sunbaked road in view through the window—the geography of
muscadine orchards and mining busts—square dancing in PE class in the cafeteria--
tables pushed against concrete walls—Home of the Wildcats—Sinclair Dinosaurs
and Diamond Shamrocks—silent thrum of a plugged-in icebox—full-service long gone--
anyway we drive on out of town—shot north towards Missouri—but I always look
back—population 142—holding down the hills—maybe by the Buffalo—happy bodies
traipsing in raw river silt—limestone jutting up to heaven—Home of the Wildcats
along the spine of Searcy County—tickle-crawl up the Ozark slopes—past Marshall
and its motel breakfasts—past Leslie and its peaches sold by prophets with cardboard
signs—plenty time to kill—Highway 65 strapped to late summer—new town every
blink and barbecue breath—zip code off by one number—till round the bend—little
boys’ hearts set on bluffs—time turns cooler in the shade of St. Joe—bare feet on
crushed zinc from those mid-century days—we take the curves slow in a forest green
minivan—we sip in open land tessellating through auto tint—all about that simple
life—brother says look at that—points at the sign reads “St. Joe: Home of the Wildcats”--
we dreamed of bobcats—the real deal no blue-and-white caricatures—the real deal
in the hills—cougar panther puma mountain lion any of ‘em—St. Joe, Arkansas--
population 142—single schoolhouse will do—none of us say it—dividing fractions
with that empty sunbaked road in view through the window—the geography of
muscadine orchards and mining busts—square dancing in PE class in the cafeteria--
tables pushed against concrete walls—Home of the Wildcats—Sinclair Dinosaurs
and Diamond Shamrocks—silent thrum of a plugged-in icebox—full-service long gone--
anyway we drive on out of town—shot north towards Missouri—but I always look
back—population 142—holding down the hills—maybe by the Buffalo—happy bodies
traipsing in raw river silt—limestone jutting up to heaven—Home of the Wildcats
Andrew Alexander Mobbs (he/him/his) is the author of the chapbook, Strangers and Pilgrims (Six Gallery Press, 2013). He's grateful his poems have appeared in Frontier Poetry, New Delta Review, Bayou Magazine, and elsewhere, and he co-founded Nude Bruce Review. Currently, he's pursuing his MFA at Oregon State University.
Born and raised in central Arkansas, our annual family vacation entailed a four-hour drive to Branson, Missouri. We always took the same route, passing through the same seemingly empty towns, all of which inspired wonder in me. St. Joe was the most memorable. This area is also near where the late C.D. Wright, a fellow native Arkansan, grew up.
Born and raised in central Arkansas, our annual family vacation entailed a four-hour drive to Branson, Missouri. We always took the same route, passing through the same seemingly empty towns, all of which inspired wonder in me. St. Joe was the most memorable. This area is also near where the late C.D. Wright, a fellow native Arkansan, grew up.