The Empties
Nov 17 2014


The empties clink
in the unheated porch

when the back door swings open.
The place that would have made

a perfect sunroom
if we hadn’t let it go.

Where green and brown bottle-glass
torn cardboard two-fours

litter the floor.

And sticky liquid

from drunken spills

marks scuffed plywood boards;

darkly hunched forms

like outlines at a crime scene.

Closed, all winter,

single-glazed windows, broken screens.

When stale smoke

clings to every object.

When the place is filled
with sweetness, yeast, and hops;

the drops of brew

that cling to the bottom

no matter how thirsty you are,

the residue

of gassy heads, gone-off.

That stinks

of biker bar

in the bleak light of dawn.

Empties
destined for the beer store,

return deposit

cash for more.

Along with aluminum cans

in discontinued brands;

crushed flat

or split in halves

sharp enough to cut.

And pull-tabs, bottle caps

scattered on the floor,
leg-hold traps

for unsuspecting toes.

A minefield

of broken glass,

stepping out back for a smoke.

This is soooo absolutely NOT me! I almost never drink beer. I don't have a porch full of empties; not even a single empty, in fact (empty wine bottles notwithstanding!) I don't smoke. And I have no idea what a biker bar smells like!

The inspiration for this poem was so tenuous, out of context, and insubstantial that I'm reluctant to even mention it. But, of course, I will. I was reading The New Yorker on my iPad, and inadvertently swiped to the next item: the title page of a short story called The Empties (by someone named Jess Row, in the Nov 3 2014 edition of the magazine). I didn't read the story; but the title somehow struck me (enough to steal it!) I think because we all instantly know what he means -- the universal short-hand of language. And I think because of the word's metaphorical potential. And I think because of how evocative such a simple word can be: I immediately heard and smelled the old bottles. I immediately visualized the cluttered enclosed porch of an old wood-frame house: like the archetypal "student" house from university days.

Which was plenty to play with. Which is what it was -- play: a delightful mix of word play and a mischievously ominous undertone.

(American readers may appreciate a translation of "two-four". This is Canadian for the standard case containing 24 bottles of beer. Also, I think "pull tabs" are a glaring anachronism: aren't they now buttons that depress, and remain attached? But that's OK, because I think this reinforces the idea of neglect: that the bottles have been piling up for years, and even decades.)