Moth

The storm has ravished
garbage cans full of junk food trash.

The remains of Friday and Saturday night,
combined,
like tumbleweed on early Monday morning streets.

The street lantern moon blinds,
kills the soul,
but mindlessly I carry on,
softly treading the near-empty streets.

Southern winds bring the smell
of smoked bacon
and of the foul river.

And I drag on,
street lantern to street lantern,
like a moth
at the end of night.