Empties

Empties


It’s an artful craft, hiding the empties-

slipped into the back of a bedroom closet, stuffed and cluttered with

buckets of loose family photos, notes from old friends, useless trophies.

Or you save one good chug for a midnight tongue in a

bottle stuffed in the front closet snow boot, deep fox pocket

idle in mid-July.

The dark corners are countless in this house.

So many places to stash a ten buck Grey Goose

or the priceless shards of  discarded plans

or a pint of  Southern Comfort

or a goat skin bursting with grief

or a flask of tequila

or a gallon of shameful rage, malignant guilt.

Or a heart that once knew how to love

all hidden with that classic clumsy stumble just minutes before you’re unconscious.

You won’t recall where you’ve put them…

until piece by piece, all of the buried resurface.

And  they will.

You just pray that that they won’t all be empty,

because you are dying of thirst.