He was revived by a spiral of leaves sopped in neon, cunning with rain. He remembered a long string of babble, a blur of misdemeanors: fists, Corralejo tequila, a woman named Cassiopeia. There was talk, but the vowels were guttural, a dead language revived only on bar stools. He was a master of the lexicon, but it was buried again.

Welcome to Yesterville,” someone said. Scuffed shoes and asphalt. A steel door behind him, served al dente.

The rain was greasy on his forearms. The alley smelled like an alarm clock…

bleating, and the morning pulled him out of the dream. It was the only dream he ever revisited, almost two years now.

Published by

Steven Baird

Writer, poet

4 thoughts on “Yesterville”

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