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.