Theirs is the clamor
of the anti-party: gathering

the empties with prices
on their heads, piling them

into rickshaws and shopping carts,
the hollow clanging of aluminum,

eggshell-thin, and bottles drained
of gin and burgundy a dull echo  

of late soirées, a summons 
to a void, and us 

rustling, heavy-headed from sleep,
as if the uproar of hunters

sifting through the plastic bins
might trigger a trip wire

laid out for intruders.
At what instant does the vessel

poured out in somber or in giddy 
glasses lose itself in the public domain?

At which juncture will gloved hands rummage 
through us, plundering, assessing, hauling off?