Monterey Park

We drove to your childhood town. We drove fast, probably broke some laws on the way. You took the exit on Atlantic then turned left. I saw the city streets dancing with Chinese letters reflecting their brush stroke paradise against the red Motel signs. They were glowing like fire flies in the summer of your senior year. “Behind this fence are patches of dead grass and empty bleachers with broken lights.” You told me as we drove down the desolate street planted with slumbering houses. “That’s the football field I graduated from.” We listened to our breath splatter against the air and extend white webs of condensation across the early November dawn.

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