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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.