John Rodriguez paints a snapshot of the deceitful streets of Los Angeles.
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Revisiting
By John Rodriguez
A room filled with furry carpets
stained with alcohol
and lost dreams
music bursting loud
Mother on the couch,
crying.
I’m in the other room
entranced in T.V.
No Pops—the cereal or the father
he died instead
at work
and left a new-born daughter
Smell of fried chicken
of barbecue and Newport menthols
of cocaine and aged skin
this
from my black neighbor Charles.
A place where we didn’t have shit
Kids looking over kids
While parents worked
tortillas
and butter for dessert.
Those around me
were happy with their lifestyle
of separation
WIC and food stamps
running out to meet
the sad ice cream man
in the summer’s heat
Where we cried together
when one child was lost
to our deceitful street
that we tried to hug as our
mother
but she would spit on us
instead.
Still
with all the negativity
these things built me
a struggle
tattoos and muscles
short skirts
hoochies flirt
children bearing children
This is where I’m from.
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Photo: Eduardo Hernandez