Empties
for the alcoholics
He’d sit in his beater when the workday ended, parked at the curb in front of his building. Across the street, from my window I’d watch him put them away— he never left the bag on the Bud Light bottle. Hours spent sitting, staring and drinking, screeching at teenagers passing on bikes. After midnight he’d stumble out, greasy work clothes stained with drunk sweat, looking drained as the empties he tossed over the fence. I knew that routine, I sat in that seat— were there eyes in the dark then, watching me too? Pitying the plight of some sad stranger, sitting staring and drinking.


Well done, Clare!
♡