Lonely Streets Near Needham

︎︎︎ Clay Hunt
︎ April 1, 2021

Spliffs attached to my lips

are the burning ashes of straws,
foils, glass dicks, and bottles.
I can’t let go
of the one thing that comforts me,
like a mother nursing spawn.

I used to spark through circuits in Modesto,
the electric alleyways kept me alive.
I’ve spent nights getting booze from Needham Liquors.
I’ve spoken to shadows that babble back with stemmed bulbs.

I have ached from the smell of vinegar,
my feeble body limped through tumbleweed town,
as carcasses float through the dumpster filled streets,
aching for a spell of wizardry.
Or chemistry.

I smiled at the thought of losing anything.
Everything was already gone.
My skin and limbs were there,
but I felt hollow
like a lightning-stricken tree,
as leaves crumbled in the air and

onto concrete where a little weed sprouted through the cracks.

Clay Hunt is the author of the chapbook, Born Shane. His poems have appeared in From Whispers to Roars, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Nebo: A Literary Journal and others. He isn't sure why he can be so reckless.