Americana Stories—Poetry

Two Poems by Robert Estes

Discretionary Power

We took up chewing tobacco
for a couple of weeks
My friends and I did
in the ninth grade
Just to push it
to the limit of bravado
I put a chaw in my mouth
in class one day
I have no memory of
what I did about spitting
Couldn’t swallow the juice
so I must have spat into
a wad of paper or something 
Uh-oh
Here comes the teacher
straight down the aisle to my desk
on the back row
The teacher (female,
stout, in late middle age)
stopped and stood there near my desk and
me with a cheek bulged by Beechnut
What had brought her there?
Sheer intuition?
Expressions on others’ faces?
Was she smelling the tobacco?
I was still and quiet 
as a fawn hidden in a thicket 
but with no cover
pretending what—to read?
not acknowledging her nearness
After some time:
a minute?
ten seconds?
she just walked back 
to the front of the room
without saying anything
What had gone through her mind?
She must have decided 
a confrontation was not required 
and didn’t want one
What do you say to a boy who’s
chewing tobacco in class?
He’s not exactly being disruptive
Or maybe she never quite 
figured out what was going on                                            
or thought she’d scared me enough
Dumb or wise, I’ll never know
Can’t remember her name                                    
or even what class it was
Nor do I remember 
what happened after she walked back
No memory of when or whether
I snuck it out of my mouth
or anything 
Once I’m gone, the last of the
two who lived that scene 
will have left this Earthly home
(No way she’s still alive)
and she probably didn’t pass 
the story on                                                           
So it’s up to you, dear reader
Someone needs to hear

Flight Delay

Facing me on the other side
of the low partition 
that separates our food, 
a beautiful young woman      
leans forward to                                  
peer intently                                                                           
into her plate, 
eyebrows dark with authority,                              
a modern-day entrail-reader
discerning our future 
in the side order of pinto beans
with her bbq at the Austin airport 

Scratch that
There’s a phone                                                    
beyond the beans                                       
which I couldn’t see 
So now she’s merely worthy
of a starring role 
in a silent-movie classic 
Maybe not Metropolis                          
but another one
never made,
one in which a tasteful
modest nostril ring 
would be an asset

~~~