Gary Powell

Crowder Peas

Remembered picking crowder peas
for the first time in years.

Dreamed about a girl I hadn’t seen
since her father passed away.

Was reminded by a lilac’s scent
of a garden I once tilled.

All this while walking down a
street I hardly know, surrounded

by people whose acquaintance
I may never make.

Saw in a spider’s web the doilies
my granny would crochet.

Heard in a dog’s plaintive bark
the huskie on my dad’s farm.

Remembered picking crowder peas
for the first time in years.

The Old Main Drag

The old main drag,
pool hall to turn around,
is forever and ever lean,
mean, and seventeen.

The old main drag,
gasoline and perfume,
is a blue-eyed blonde
in a rag-top ’Vette, 1962.

The old main drag,
railroad to river,
is a cheeseburger, fries,
and a malted chocolate shake.

The old main drag,
cigarettes and reefer,
is a bare-knuckle brawl
and a busted upper lip.

The old main drag,
Marion street to Beardsley,
is her hand on your thigh
and her tongue in your ear.

The old main drag,
cold beer and Naugahyde,
is Cassady and Kerouac,
and you ain’t never going back.

The old main drag,
post office to liquor store,
is Saturday night
never going to end.

The old main drag.
cars muscled to the line,
is school boys pissing
lusty in a prairie wind.


Gary V. Powell, a recovering lawyer, is currently a stay-at-home dad and all-around handy-man. His fiction can be read in many literary journals including the Thomas Wolfe Review, Carvezine, Fiction Southeast, Atticus Review, Smokelong Quarterly, Best New Writing 2015, and Pisgah Review. His first novel, Lucky Bastard, was published by Main Street Rag Publishing (2012). Two collections of short stories and flash fiction, Beyond Redemption and Getting Even and Other Stories, were released in 2015 and 2019, respectively.

← Back to Issue 9