A man sits on the corner, 

 

Cardboard in his hands, 

 

Bright colors on the bricks, 

 

To his right, 

 

To his left, 

 

A woman stands in a market,  

 

Towering above red round produce, 

 

Screaming at a child, 

 

In rolling harsh strings of Spanish, 

 

His mouth full, 

 

His eyes giant brown discs, 

 

Catching stares and smiles and stray chuckles from passers-by, 

 

Across the street, 

 

The smell of sweet and sour sauce, 

 

Of roasting chicken and chow mien, 

 

The kitchen clangs, 

 

With pots and pans and sharp demands, 

 

Of languages across the western great blue sea, 

 

In the ally out of sight, 

 

A shadow between childhood and man, 

 

Uses a can to smear his self-expression, 

 

In Los Angeles the cars race by, 

 

Life goes on, 

 

Between the seconds and moments of time, 

 

A culture of multitudes survives, 

 

Of that I am proud.