The Curious Tradition of the Ashtray

(a love poem for my son) Dreams spill out of sleep sift across the hardwood floor covers the window in colors of May slamming me back towards childhood or perhaps just to the ashtray. One forged with labor in elementary school ceramics; patient fingers size up, roll the earthen clay, pinch it to perfection, this unusable object is made with skill, crafted uniquely for my father. A tribute greater than mountain carved faces monuments of life’s reward. Baseball camps, tee-ball games, selfless Sunday morning catch, sitting in question understanding Auguste Rodin, your etched piece of history proclaimed in this ashtray. The long afternoons, bedtime stories, day dreams of musketeers tree-forts and bandaged knees, wisdom contained in a receding hair-line without the restriction of bookends. This is your medal placed with vigilance impatient in time yes, a five pound ashtray. Reflections of your accomplishments schematics of fatherhood, fired painted with magnificence useless to anyone but you. Standing at the door, a lone sentry hands outstretched boastfully, here is your prize an ashtray! The reception of kings, grins of rum soaked pirates, you calmly seat me down with the tale of tradition, rite of passage generation to generation, the tribulation of the ash tray passed from father to son. Thirty-something as I lay in bed the warm morning symphony shines bright upon my medal like a polished chrome hood ornament, I too have taken my place among the tradition of the ashtrays.