Flood Stage at Wiley’s Last Resort

On the road to Damascus,

Gentry Creek threw its leg over the bank 

to wrestle the road to its level.

Firefighters on the other side

encouraged us to drive across—

Red Rover. Red Rover,

my red Subaru seemed to gingerly lift its skirt,

cartoonish, as it stepped into fast water.

They waved frantically to STOP

as a tree floated by.

Again, they motioned us onward.  

Finally arrived at Wiley’s, 

sealed jugs of water stood intact 

on my car’s soaked floorboard.

Ann and I sent a glance

of fright to each other—

the recognition

that the creek had been high enough

to drag us under its stampede.

We camped nearby other SAWCers—

fire stamped out by steady rain.

Rain that followed us from Boone,

through Tennessee and Virginia,

would not let up all weekend.

Dana said downpours all the way 

from Georgia was the drive through Hell.

Drenched sleeping bags draped chairs 

under the mercy of a plastic roof,

half walls, only a gesture against incoming torrents,

at the Sand Bar(d) Gorilla.

Wiley’s dryer ran like a gerbil, night and day, 

with damp jeans and plaid shirts.

The new inflated mattress kept us above 

water inching up our tent floor,

but a few tents caved in from the pressure

and sank to their knees.

My notebook began to bleed out—

folded over, limp.

Constant hard rain and Wiley 

started the tempo for each day

by egging on a big breakfast.

We talked about poems even as we ate.

Ann finished washing the dishes

while Scott and I remained 

talking about our poetry lives, 

enhanced by having children.

Ever the good host,

Wiley started off the morning 

workshop for miserable souls,

Welcome to the Zen way of workshopping!

His laughter set us at ease even as we shivered.

Cold settled into the bones 

of concrete walls that tenderly wept.

I had mistakenly made brownies with cake mix 

but all got eaten anyway

as Wiley offered warm blankets—

so well-versed at disaster relief

after strip mining caused floods.

Wiley became his own “Mr. Flood’s Party,”

singing against all adversity,

ever grateful for a swarp of writers,

and the refuge of a clear plastic roof— 

all that separated us from the wrath of God.

Wiley knew this, too, shall pass.

His parables were by example:

tiny seeds beaten down into mud—

all they needed to hunker down

to make the best of a bad situation

for their future bugle cry 

of yellow and pink—

Dutchman’s Breeches and Lady-slippers.

-Hilda Downer

from Wiley's Last Resort. Hickory:  Redhawk Publications, 2022.