Garrett Speller
The Ashtray’s View A year of November Stubs fall like autumn leaves among A daze of dust and cinders. The ashtray sits, Regret coating its insides matte black, Blighting whatever color within. And the world was gray: Gray-black, gray ash, stain of soot, Cough-hack, long-draw, emptiness. There was a photo nearby, once Propped up against the wall, but It had fallen behind their dresser and Never bothered to return. There were, as memory serves, Two faces—now old, then young— Preserved in its grimy antiquated film, Adorned with smiles, the likes of 21
