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Empties

To the fatherless, we might have looked like a raucous
good time on those long drives in the old beat-up Silverado,
but it was when dad taught us the many uses of disregard,
windows down, those hot desert nights,
FM station coming in just a tick off the static,
the old man singing along in an over-the-top twang
don’t give your heart to a ramblin’ man,
as he handed a cold beer to each of us. The first time
tasted a bit like the smell of the doctor’s office
when they swabbed up your bicep, but I never said no.
Driving in a land of no streetlights, no houses, no trees,
only long road and stars, he flung the empties
into the pristine night (assuring us the can collectors
would pick them up). The ripped seat cushion’s
loosening yellow stuffing, crumbled into grains
that stuck to my thighs, no longer annoyed me,
and we laughed at the broken needle that toggled freely
between Empty and Full.

—
Renee Pierre’s many jobs have included day care worker, barista, dance teacher, photographer assistant, auto shop clerk, and mental health therapist. Some of her poems are published in Fledgling Rag. Renee lives in the woods of Central Pennsylvania, enjoys playing freeze tag, and is a patron of taco trucks.

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