The first bottle is embarrassing.
You have brought a bag of noise
into a quiet street.
Then you get used to it.
Wine makes a long crash.
Olive oil, a short one.
The little jar of capers
lands somewhere soft.
You wait.
A cyclist looks around
as though you might have called his name.
At home you rinsed each bottle,
stood it upside down to dry.
Now you feed them through a rubber mouth
and listen to them happen.
Only the caper jar survives.
You try to hit it with the last bottle.
Miss.
You fold your bag.
There is nothing else
you are allowed to throw.