Days Work

 Have you ever tried chewing tobacco, namely the brand called " Day's Work?" This is what I remember.

Day’s Work

Spit a stream from a chaw

of Day’s Work and watch it draw

flies like the puddles

of corn squeezings draining

from a freshly chopped silage pile.

A cheek full of licorice-laced

tobacco leaves drove me to dizzy

heights and shuddering facial

contortions until its blistering

attack on the soft skin

in my mouth eased a bit.

We never failed to think

maybe we should capture

some of that juice running

from the base of that corn pile

and cook it into our personal brand

of liquor. In our wild fantasy

we, in a souped-up jalopy,

could haul white lightning

to thirsty customers near the river

and stay at least one delivery

ahead of the county sheriff. Dad

told of moonshiners along the Sheyenne

who once shoved the sheriff’s car

into the river when he came snooping.

Beneath us, who knows?

At the upper end of those teen years

we hunted rites of passage to prove we

were the men we kept telling

ourselves we were. Those

were the days, my friend,

and often in my reverie,

I thought they’d never end.