Nothing Hill by Yash Seyedbagheri 

I stand atop a hill
flame-colored and golden leaves shimmering across a field
the Ponderosas rise with verdant smiles
row by row
and I stretch my flesh worn arms out, my flaccid figure releasing dormant energy
while the breeze tickles
a spire shimmers somewhere like The Sound of Music

below, the credit card capos demand their hits
and the mustache men deem me bad, weak, selfish
a wasted life, be a lawyer, use people
and rings assault me from under my eyes
but they cannot get me here
on this newly paved road, voluptuous and smooth
rising and rising before it falls


the tar rushes to my nose
the breeze blows harder, inviting me to dance
with welcome
I stand atop this hill
the cabins and homes with purple-onion colored roofs
bright specks on a dreamscape
not a speck of dust

not a cell phone buzzing
demanding that I relinquish time to cover another mustache man’s lies
or type another self-promoting report for him
I stand at the top of a hill

and see nothing
Photo by Jacob Colvin on Pexels.com

About the Poet:

Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His stories, “Soon,”  “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” and “Tales From A Communion Line,” were nominated for Pushcarts. Yash’s work  has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and Ariel Chart, among others.

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