Wanda Coleman (November 13, 1946 – November 22, 2013)

sun radiant in her face, squinting slightly she brakes as the lane goes red with vehicle brake lights on the 10 westbound at Peck Road

she sits in her sedan in front of Alhambra Market braiding  a bit of her hair midafternoon

the dog in the backyard hears a sound, perks up to listen (George barks)

some little finch-like bird chirps, stops, flies off

bearded men in the barbershop sit against one wall waiting for a chair to open

the jogger runs past, she eyes the pavement watching for uneven parts, cracks from ficus roots

old Nisei with the walker, hunched over his coffee outside Buster’s

the ruddy-faced man sits on the concrete bench outside Fosselman’s Ice Cream and licks his pink ice cream cone, the father and his two sons sit on the concrete bench

the driver of the little Honda waits for the drive-thru ATM behind the drive of another small sedan

the seagull flies over the parking lot of Wells Fargo, it flies over the parking lot of Alhambra Hospital and King Hua Restaurant

Wanda Coleman died—Los Angeles is meditating

someone in the Salvadoran restaurant is watched over by the TV, someone in the convalescent home is watched over by the TV, someone in the stale livingroom watched over by the TV

I drive west on Main Street, window open to stick my hand into the chill 30 MPH breeze

someone from L.A. takes a picture of her apartment window in Bushwick

my mother looks at her garden in City Terrace

a teen picks at her split ends

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