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
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.