All the ashtrays have been emptied 
The ashes blown to dust 
Long ago. 

The decorative stone ones, 
The ceramic one your mother made, 
The heavy one that was thick and gemlike 
Faceted, bending light. 

That one was too nice, 
It made the ashes seem dirtier. 

The cheap metal ones, bent up at four sides 
That I had in college in ‘91. 
That one was on the dresser: 
The one I fished half smoked butts out of, 
Careless of the last lips that held them.  

The souvenir one that once said Canada, 
The red word on the clear glass
And the maple leaf on the bottom
Faded and chipped away. 

The smokers are outside now, 
Or quit, 
Or dead. 

The ashtrays are in landfills, 
In forgotten boxes in the dark cellar, 
Dim corners behind old books. 

Existing in their decay, 
Fading to ashes. 
Returning to dust.