I remember a wistful evening I spent in Charlottetown
on the day before Victoria’s Day
two years before my life changing colon surgery
I was standing adrift in a field of witch hazel
near a lichen-covered pond full of ribiting bull frogs
beetles were a-buzz in the cool, close country air
the smells of warm horse apples wafted effortlessly on the air
from a barn-like structure on the edge of collapse
on the far side of a border fence made of cedar logs
and mixed with the peat from the nearby swamps
to form a heavy aroma that simply screamed “rural humility”
I, a young and foolish boy of twenty-six
burning with desire and Vick’s Vaporub
her, a vibrant girl dressed in a paper bag
she stole from the grocery store
her eyes peering into my own with a look
that seemed to cry out in a passion-filled wail
“Why is there pumpkin in your teeth?”
I knew what she was really saying
I will never forget Wilma
no matter how I try
pass the beans, please
