The ashtray in my car is filled with spare change.

We would drive places

And you would tell me that ashtrays were pointless these days—

That I had found the perfect use for the vestigial compartment.

The very last time you were in my car

It was dark,

And we were parked in the back lot.

It was finally spring so all the windows were rolled down,

The smell of wet soil and cut grass mixing with fabric cleaner,

And I had a flower that I had grabbed from the ground.

We sat in the parked car

Our seatbelts still fastened,

And as you told me things I did not want to hear

My fingers worked in a frenzy,

Tearing the petals into tiny pieces,

Letting the silky shreds fall silently

Into my pile of quarters and dimes,

While I looked at you with steady eyes

And nodded in agreement.

Furious and infatuated

Behind a mask of unwavering poise.

A month later, the pink petals dried

Becoming a distinguished maroon

And slowly, they sank to the bottom of the ashtray.

It wasn’t for another two years,

When scrambling for change at a toll booth

That I saw them again,

This time barely recognizable—

Unsightly dried cinders,

Twitching and vulnerable in the open air.

I smiled and thought of you

And then drove along the highway

One hand on the wheel,

The other rummaging through my purse

Searching for spare change,

So I could protect the fragile wisps.