The World at a Picnic Table

Elliot is still at that malleable age
at which she does not know
that her elders--even her old elders--
are already thinking about selling her
into indentured servitude
by encouraging her to attend the university,
and take out large loans.

In the meantime, she is learning to eat from a spoon.
She will, of course, go on to a spork, then a fork, and a dull plastic knife,
after which there will be training courses in all kinds of things,
followed by pre- and graduate-school.

She does not have a chance.
Both of her parents know the way.

But first, that spoon.

"Orange crap!", she thinks.
"Milk is never orange!"

"The last time we tried this,
Mom started with bananas--not bad--
then switched to sweet potatoes!"

"Yep! Half-and-half.

Even so. . . ."

Portland is Craftsman-style,
except where the four-story
advocates for affordable housing
have tacked up milky-glass boxes,
sometimes with stainless steel
just to show that this is the last century.

In the last century,
the craftsmen did better,
but honesty demands the admission
that when growth is wanted
and sprawl is not, space and style
will be brutally battered.

The food is rarely battered.
Portland rewards in food
what it takes away in parking.
It is evidence that when neighbors and cultures meet,
both neighborhoods and restaurants thrive.
When there is not space for whole restaurants,
the food trucks gather like bees trying trees
and serve the nectar from their last home.

It is wonderful!

No pureed sweet potatoes disguised as bananas!

"This," they say, "is what happens where the world meets at a picnic table!"

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