Ends

I mutter under my breath
about the
cigarette end calling cards
left on my front stoop
peeking out the welcome mat
buried under mud
from your shoe
fossils that burned
in midden

long ago
a man explained that mine
were always
straight and stood at attention
in a glass ashtray
balanced on my window sill
he noticed
one squashed and twisted
from someone else’s mouth
had shared the spot
and me

today
I notice their cotton
and the gold letters
pressed on their collars
little soliders
this time all mine
in the sunshine
I survey the little bones
on the palm of my hand
where I map out all that remains.