chekov and the ashtray

you dream
of chekov in
the livingroom
smoking,
drinking
a small glass
of absinthe,
his hat tilted
on his head.
he's picking
up an
ashtray
and pondering
his next
story, holding
his beard
in his hand.
his fingers damp
with
black ink.
you tell him
nicely,
as you come down
the stairs,
put the ashtray
down anton,
that story's
mine.