the orange street food farm parking lot…


sometimes it can take hours when the fishing guide

from the bitterroot stops to have a smoke with his elbows resting

on the truck door to talk to the house painter/poet

while the  playwright/electrician walks past with his grocery cart

and they wave him over to talk about Missoula stuff….which can be almost



because the orange street food farm parking lot is the nexus

of the universe where a grizzled, bearded philosopy prof

secretly admires the shape of a comely coed walking

past his sensibly green and fuel efficient Prius

with she not even casting a glance at his lonely sad pathetic sunglared


in her go have fun tight jeans to get some of the cheapest beer in town


where neighbors grab each other laughing to catch up on

all things before they rush home to feed the kids after work

and an old cowboy from petty creek picks his way past

the gaggle of gals who surround some punk dressed hip hop teen

with a cute puppy

and he stops to talk to the mystery writer who just pulled in from L.A.

for some rolling papers and snacks on his way to charlie’s bar


and the political activist and his thin macro-diet enviro-zealot girlfriend

bump into an out of work logger at the door who says excuse me

and takes off his cap to smile a frank admiring smile at the young girlfriend

and the political activist turns angry but the mystery writer

and the cowboy notice the beginning of a mistake

and the mystery writer says take it easy son…

that is a real Montanan you are talking to there

and that is the wisest thing said that peaceful happy day

in the orange street food farm parking lot.




1 Comment

  1. You captured it. Orange Street Food Farm. It’s my social life. Not to mention, entertainment value, when the clerks are stoked by the tunes — in the store, or just the music in their minds. Who would have guessed the most mundane of chores — grocery shopping — could often turn out to be a highlight of one’s day.

    — Ruthie

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