By Jose Hernandez Diaz
Riding the bus up Imperial Hwy,
to the Weaver Library, I peer out
of the graffiti-laced windows and see a piñata
dangling from the tall branches of a willow tree
at Independence Park. I know I am southeast of the artificial river—
it is written in invisible ink on the dusty shop windows
where Virgencitas and Mexican and American flags
hang like ornaments on Christmas trees. I know I am southeast—
it can be smelled inside Gonzalez Market where the aroma
del bolillo fresco meshes with the chisme and chatter
of the Spanglish day. I know I am southeast of the American river—
it is written on my juxtaposed, Chicano stare,
as I shift perspective from outside the window to inside:
Where immigrants commute to work, some without driver’s licenses:
A law that must change with the evolving city.
A city built by immigrants for all to thrive.
