junkyard poetry

I sit alone here in this room for the socially stigmatized. The modern lepers. The left over smokers. Here, the cigarette burns have drawn their patterns on the heavy wooden surface. The wallpapers are faded and yellow from age, tear and smoke. What life does a gleaming surface have? Only the used have personality - only the abused have integrity. And so I tenderly offer my ashes, my lipstick stained cigarette buds, to the room and leave to join the others.