Walking

I saw
the city of angels
in the flicker of a candle,
Softly lit
in the shadows
of a church.

Outside, the
sun sinking
below the horizon,
and the lights flickering
on in the city.

I saw the vatos with their shaved heads,
and their hynas with the
arched eyebrows,
cruising down Whittier Blvd.,
in a Chevy Impala
low-rider,
listening to oldies, choking
down a smoke,
Rivera-13 etched across their necks.

Punks, skating on the sidewalk
smoking hash, smiling
with broken teeth, dumpster
diving in the alley.

And a man,
selling oranges and fresh flowers
on the corner,
with tired eyes -
worn shoes.

Making the sign of the cross,
I pray El Padre Nuestro,
for mi famila,
that we can make it.
That Los angéles,
watch over us.

I open the door.
my mom offering food, and I
say: gracias a dios.