Sodium Lights

love is on Mariposa,

under the yellow sodium lights of a

laundromat draped with murals of fountains and tulips,

where a mother gently folds the

uniforms of her sons and daughters,

and cracks open a coke as she sits and

asks the gentleman beside her if he can

help lift the heavy basket into her

cart,

he obliges with a chuckle that echoes

into the tumbling of the dryers.

on Bonnie Brae, where the man

draping liquid amber over cut up pieces of

mango tells me about how he misses his

mom in Oaxaca,

reminiscing about the tender sun

that kissed his cheeks on summer mornings,

and how his dad would take him and his

brothers down to the nearby river,

where he would float across warm waters

that would hug his olive skin.

On Sunset, where i buy colored crosses

from a man who’s been in this

neighborhood longer than the masked men

asking him for his proof

to stand

on sacred soil.

his leathered skin and weathered eyes

give away tales of rebellious teenage

years i never ask about,

but he stares at the faded, drunkenly

decided tattoos on my left arm that look

like stickers,

and he understands.

it’s on 4th, where the gentle owner of

a humble camera shop explains to a shy,

but confidently wrong college kid, that

he’s been using the wrong battery for a vintage camera.

he laughs awkwardly, and the owner

examines his equipment with a shine

in his eye,

he tosses him a new roll of film,

and gives him a discount, just because.

it’s at an Atlantic cafe, nestled

between an appliance store and a barber

shop,

where i buy a warm frothy matcha that

kisses my lips,

the same way you used to softly lay

yours across mine

when we would sit under a bridge in

Norwalk on summer nights, when twilight

turned the world into a gentle sapphire

for just one minute,

waiting for the train to arrive,

and take me Home.