The Meat Market

The bottles line the shelves,
names in languages of countries
I've never been to nor will ever see.

Some are clear as air,
Fooling you with their appearance;
Empty they are not.

Some dark and red.
Whether from its own natural distillation,
Or the mood lights that surround their home.

Some are filled to the brim,
Like one little push
Would send them over the edge to spill their guts.

Some half empty, hollow,
Their souls drank firm;
Leaving them near empty ready to be thrown away.

Sizes tall and skinny,
Longnecks and cursive lettering;
Almost too demeur for such a common bar.

Some short and wide,
Filled with libations to tickle your stomach.
A presence with their plain simplicity.


Who makes these bottles?
Their bodies, their liquor?
Who is their god/creator?

They sit there waiting.
Will someone choose them tonight
Or will they be left there waiting for their drinker to come along?

Evenly, smoothly they stand there
The glass reflecting the lights
Competing with each other as to who stands out more.

Who wins in the game of bottles?
The one who lasts the longest on the shelf,
Preserving their inner souls from
being inhaled;
Or the one who fulfills its purpose,
Pleasing the tastes and senses of some stranger,
Only to end up thrown in the trash,
empty and alone.