“Do you know what a strange place you live in?”
says my East coast friend, gawking at Hollywood Farmer’s Market,
closest thing to church attendance its Sunday patrons know.
I try to view the scene with her eyes, spot the usual uniforms
black hair streaked with pink, hot blue, piercings in tender parts
faded forties’ slips on twenty-something bones
dreadlocks, straw hats, shaved heads, turbans
the stray character actor from sit-com guest shots
real farmers, hucksters, old hippies, eager bakers, musicians
free kittens next to hot tamales beside handmade soaps, flowers
Baby Gap kids sample fruits, strollers loaded with vegetables
amiable swirl and jostle, Angelenos stocking up, taking stock
L. A. version of town square, Main Street, village well.
This is ordinary to me, nothing to remark
except, perhaps, that once I was an Eastern girl, too.
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I liked the poem …clearly saw the wonderful mixture of all God’s children.
Hope all is well. Kathy