The Ashtray’s View

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

Which are only found in blissful glee, when Bathed in the warm midsummer sun.

It was a spot of June in this dreary November place, Fallen, forgotten, willfully ignored, and now the Old one sits, smoking his year away Swathed in smog and forgetfulness, Watching the ash fall like Sand, abandoning an hourglass.

He came back more, stayed less. Eyes a soot brown, cigarette butts Littering the floor, a stain of sadness, Grief and loss eating away at the walls, Mixing with embers and smoke,

And settling.