Yesterday's Treasures

 

I'm sorry to be an ashtray in an antique shop.   Not only do I now have a feeling of being useless and unwanted, but also of having a terrible history, spreading deadly cancer to everyone in my past.

Such a horrible thing I have been.  I don't really remember choosing to be an ashtray.   I used to think I was hot stuff.  Thick, green glass, all gleaming, reflecting the office lights.  My tall, mahogany pedestal holding me waist high.  Cigar smokers loved me.  There was always plenty of room for their stogies.

I always got the office gossip first, and their closed-door meetings were quite intense.  I could tell you some stories, boy.

The thing is, now everyone just walks past me.  Some even point at me, like I'm some kind of freak.  "Hey, look... an ashtray."  Boy, some people can be such jerks.

I miss my pedestal.  We were buds.  We went everywhere together.  Some girl bought him right away.  Why she didn't want me too, I don't know.  What's she going to do with an empty pedestal?

Probably some artsy thing, who knows?

I really have lost all track of time in this shop.  It seems like it's been a few years since I first got here.  I'm not the oldest, though.  That goofy, hanging lamp that runs drops of oil along those strings.  She's been here forever. 

It is kind of hypnotizing watching those droplets of oil.  Geez, I hope I'm not losing it.  I need to get out of here.