Empty Things: A Poem

Empty Things


I have this odd obsession with empty things.
Blank notebooks, satchels, wooden boxes,
their potentialities tug at my sleeve, clear their throats, demand my attention.

"Fill us," they say.

In a box I place:
a silver dime
a baby tooth
a handcuff key
a bullet.

In a satchel I place:
a deck of cards
a physics text
an unfinished story
a specific pen.

In a notebook I write:
a scarred boy
a God idea
a drop of pain
a thousand snippets.

These are for myself for now,
so I close my empty things and make promises to come back.

Do I keep them?  Sometimes.


JCS
2/4/15