Rocky Wilson

I wanted to tell Darcy I accidentally ate her hash brownie
but it was on a plate in her bedroom
so, really, that wouldn’t work.
She was one of the few on the commune
who had a real job at Indian Head Plywood
so, she, of all of us, deserved her Alice B. Toklas brownie.
I wanted to ask if she’d seen the movie with Peter Sellers,
especially the scene where the parents get totally stoned
on some brownies they don’t know are laced with hashish.
My sister was a brownie, I remembered,
but never went on to girl scouts.

Anything physical was out of the question.
Darcy’s crush on Samantha was the reason
Sam’s husband moved to Hardwick.
Sorry wasn’t really going to cut it either,
so I just let Darcy go on about what nerve I had,
and why I didn’t respect her space
and what the hell was I thinking anyway?
I flashed on my grade school principal
asking me if I knew The Golden Rule.

Did I put my hand on Darcy’s shoulder?
Did I go immediately to the East Charleston store
and buy her something sweet?
It’s not so clear anymore,
that was almost 40 years ago.
We were the love generation gone back to the land,
tapping the sugar maples in northern Vermont,
watching the pot in the cornfield grow higher than the corn,
and building a sweat lodge by the river.

Where are you now, Darcy?
How are you?

I recently passed
my first colonoscopy exam with flying colors.
There are little floaters in my eyes
that were never there before
but the doctor said they’re nothing to worry about.
I have more root canals than roots left.
Not things we ever thought about on the farm,
but, enough about me.

Sit down, Darcy,
I have mango bread in the fridge,
and I can make us cups of chai tea with soy milk
and we can, at last, laugh,
at how Peter Sellers, the lawyer,
grew his hair long
and painted his black Cadillac
all those psychedelic colors.