Empty is
the sky before the sun wakes up the morning.
The eyes of animals in cages.
The faces of women mourning
when everything has been taken
from them.
Me?
Don’t ask me about empty.
Empty is a string of dirty days
held together by some rain
and the cold wind drumming
at the trees again.
Empty is the color of the fields
along about September
when the days go marching
in a line toward November.
Empty is the hour before sleep
kills you every night
then pushes you to safety
away from every kind of light.
Empty is me.
Empty is me.
Sorry, but I thought he was already dead. Rest in peace, indeed. That’s actually a really good poem, so thanks. Growing up I always had the impression that Mckuen was kind of a joke. Sort of in the vain of Richard Harris singing McCarther Park.
Here’s Woody Allen’s take:
I was always a Prather fan myself, but McKuen was a force to be reckoned with, for sure.
This reminds me, I was thinking the other day what would people think if the animals had disappeared.
That turns out better than I thought it would.