I was trodding down a dusty road
Silent but not forgotten
A slow, conspicuous mystique
Yerberia La Santisima

Both sides lined with the same business in competition
It seemed I’d been before as in premonition
So there, I was right in a place bound in superstition
Hierberia el Indio, Yerberia Afro-cubana, Yerberia Santa Barbara

I knew no memory misconstrued it
For every corner, every brick of every wall of every hierberia was familiar
A store out of 1 floor of a 3 story building stood alone at one end that read “Ropa Usada”
Across from Yerberia Venezuela,
Yerberia Columbia
I entered to the smell of beer and the scent of smoke
In the midst of clothes and junk and no one spoke

I knew I’d been here too
Everything I dreamt was true
Every coat on every hanger
Every face of every stranger

Every shoe, every belt
Every wandering gaze
Every dim-litted haze
Glazed over the ending day

I bought nothing, ate of nothing, drank of nothing, and asked of nothing
For this place was strange
I departed silently every face deranged
Peering into the lots of gravel and fray
Sitting soundlessly under the day of grey

One left, one right and I was done
It had ended as quickly as it had begun

Las Hierberias