Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Ashtrays, a poem


Seven ashtrays, passed from one generation
of nonsmokers to the next — they have held
candy and knick-knacks and paper clips.
They have been ornaments on coffee tables.

The green one is ugly. I know that.
A mottled trilobite, the ceramic chic
of another generation, it squats
unused. It makes a comfortable clutter.

This one might look good over there or maybe
in the other room. Does it matter?
They might sit here or they might all sit in boxes
until someone else will find them as useless as I.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

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