They hide themselves on top of this ashtray

Covered over, mysterious but obvious

And I flick my cigarette onto them more

Dripping, overflowing with a light, white power.



A cold ashtray becomes out of stock

Unavailable it would seem, until my match strikes gently

Against this worn, invaded box.

So I shake my hand and it's out again



Cold again, and left again.

To an ashtray that was left to swell.

05/17/2003

Posted on 06/09/2003
Copyright © 2024 Sam Roberts