First pack of the night

this glass-bottle-green ashtray
sits on the edge of my table
seasoned with the ashes of my mistakes,
my old flames burnt out with a flick of my wrist
and gone up in smoke
over that pack of Camels in my sleeve.

Red-mouthed lipstick proof of
a failure to remain tame
mocks my feeble attempts to maintain.
Maintain.
maintain.

Tell-tale nothings tell tall tales of
daddy didn'ts and
hard-hitting lessons
and
schooling in that 'Nam shit.

No amount of ashes fill my cup

Even so, I'll try
to smother out that past
without choking on my own lies.