Pike Place Wanderings

Sitting at the bar of Ivar's at Pier 54, I opened my journal to shield me from the gaggle of Nebraskans who had descended upon my fair city for the ill-fated football game between the Huskies and the Huskers. In my little red book I found scribbled notes about my travels in Pike Place, barely legible and hurried. Amidst the many sentence fragments I found jewels, sparkling images of my experience of Pike Place, the market, the people, the products, the day. These I turned into a free form poem of sorts while sipping my Boundary Bay Pilsner (locally brewed in Bellingham).

Art

her sign said

Art is sharing love

sharing love with strangers

We're all strangers here

on worn cobble streets that evoke

smells that evoke

warm tastes and gooey cheese

loving curds and dark spices in the Market.

Glazed eyes dart from crisp apple

cut into tart bits held by a Native's hand

3 girls and their fluffy lemon ginger.

These Natives are not sinister, though

perhaps they seem this way to more foreign strangers.

Pierced, tattooed, dreaded, draped in earth toned woven hemp

their gorgeous eyes light when we ask questions

"What is the VALUE of this market?"

A giggle

and Josh speaks

"The VALUE?

of this outdoor supermarket?

Do you think Pineapples grow locally in winter? We still

serve them to the TOURISTS"

another giggle

and gaged ears waggle

"HERE! PUT THIS IN YOUR FACE!"

Near the dead supple smell of leather

I meet a family in business

a dying trade of dead skin

tied around ballooning waists.

Garlic in the wind I set to a warm bun

helping add to my expanding midline

helping feed the families who live their lives

differently

alternative people in an alternative market