For years now
I’ve been using the green plant on the kitchen table as an ashtray,
it’s deep green and bears pretty, nicotine yellow little flowers once a year
and tang of perfumed cigars.
“Been smoking again,” she says and sniffs the air.
“No, it’s not me, it’s the plant’s flowers they smell that way.”
Suppressed giggle from the green fiend,
which trembles slightly,
till fine ash covers the table.