as the *** of spaghetti
I left on the stove. Empty as
the pockets in my overcoat. Empty
as a wheelbarrow full of rain. It’s

a swimming hole for
the crows. It hasn’t seen much
grain. Empty as the Styrofoam cup
after the man used up his last

coins on the gin. Empty as
the bottle as he drains it, growing
thin. Empty as all the promises
I’ve ever made. Empty as a carton of
lemonade on a hot day.