Pot Brownies

Sam said, “Sauté the bud in butter
for no more than half an hour.”         Mother

never wondered                 what pot butter was,
preferred its odor to the shrubby cape

of my clan’s patchouli -        chafed        -        camaraderie
laced         with Joplin rhapsody                 and         Hendrix haze.

None of us bathed.                 Hairy pits and pimpled faces
on boys and girls alike.                 Someone’s Mother’s

kitchen everyday after school.                 We dropped Jesus
Christ acid,         psychedelic mushrooms outside Dead concerts—

No one bought tickets.         The parking lot was crunk,
where the action was in 89—        tents,                hemp necklaces,

youth,                 a hallucinated foot                 kicking lead feathers.
Mother never wondered what pot butter was,         hollered

from the living room at seeds popping in the frying pan,
she said,                                 “Turn that heat down.”