freewrite on the bottle

The bottle is green, slighty transparent, and it holds nothing.
The label boasts of a time when the contents were once moonshine
made in the basement of my grandfather's house.
The steep stairs which lead to the linoleum floor, checkered green.
In the back room, behind the green door with the round brass knob
stood an army of empty green bottles, all empty,
drained over midnight games of poker and quarrels over baseball games broadcast through the radio with the broken dial that still rests over the kitchen sink.
The bottles are green, empty with memories of a time when life
was important, connected to something. They hold a story, a promise of a refilling once more. To let the flow of life begin again.