back seat betty

he loves
to smoke, holding the freshly lit
cigarette
out the window
of his old
Cadillac.
the ashtray is full
of grey dust,
butts bent over,
some with lipstick
on them.
I hold one up to him
as he drives
along,
betty he says, staring
at the butt.
we went out last night.
I look in
the back seat.
some of betty's clothes
are back there.
shoes, a skirt.
an empty bottle of merlot.
he lights another
cigarette with the one
he's smoking,
crushing the old
one into the ashtray,
what can I say, he says.
blowing a string of smoke
rings at the windshield.
we can't seem to
stay away from one
another.