There Are Quarters In The Ashtray Next To The Bed Poem by Matt Mullins

She is twisted around me in the bedroom's green curtained shadow
all is limbs, hair, skin.

There are cars this morning, wheels, as always, sighing on pavement.
The chirp of birds. A world going from here to there.

Suddenly she is reaching up, turning on the bedside light.
She needs the phone, I'm told, to call Fufu, Chuck and John.

Who? I don't know or care. I roll away, curling into a corner
of the bed, a pillow over my skull as she licks at the skin on my spine

when somebody puts her on hold. She talks on and on
smiling, laughing, seemingly so interested in everything she's told

as she runs her finger up and down the muscles of my arm.
I sit up. There are quarters, a bottle cap, and a roach in the ashtray.

I'm still trying to think of the last time we talked for real
when she sets the receiver down, throws the sheet aside

rubs a hand along her stomach, over her breasts and asks me
what it is I'm thinking now.