Empties

By Joseph Hesch

Walking through the old neighborhood,
full of derelict buildings and derelict souls, 
my head down against the December wind, 
I spied the shiny bit of sidewalk flotsam,
an empty bottle whose ice-blue label read
Crystal Palace Vodka.
Diamonds of ice sparkled within,
survivors of this vessel’s manifest

before it ended up on the rocks

or straight to the bottom.

It reminded me of finding such empties 

of temporary anesthesia in my youth.

More often than not, they were green bottles 
the abandoned shells of Thunderbird wine.

These days it seems even the street alkies,

have gone big time, drinking the same hooch

as higher class drunks, only with no olive.

I kicked the bottle from my path, and found

even more change to these tippling times-- 

the Palace empty wasn’t crystal.

Rather, it was made of plastic.

Of course it was. 
As I and my reverie 
stalked further up the street,

we came upon another empty,

green like those old bottles of T-bird.

This one was a child’s mitten

perched on a snowpile.

I wasn’t sure if it was waving

hello to the new world

or goodbye to the old, 
so I put it in my pocket and 
together we escaped this one.