The ceiling fan above doesn’t turn.
It waits on a switch that never trips.
The snow outside sits cold and white.
It waits on a sun that never shines.
The world is a head with empty sockets
spinning itself into nothing and nothing
stirs me as I lie on my bed and see how
the ceiling fan above doesn’t turn.
The laminated Renoir holds hostage
grand dames of the boulevard,
les enfants, the gentlemen
with their hats, and carriages trundling
behind cantering horses: a scene
come to life in the morning light.
It prefers an indictment against me
for staring blankly, unmoved.
The potted plants are withered and brown,
leaves crinkling to dust in my fingers.
I begrudge them every drop I pour
from the spout. It enrages me
to be enslaved by needy plants.
The potting soil and fertilizer
sit in the garage next the car,
next plastic toys the children ignore.
I have a watch with real hands
that go round if you bother
to wind it. But it is stopped.
The hands tear at my chest. And now?
And now I have lost the measure
of my footsteps. I have lost
the track of flagstone in the grass
that once marked a path to your door.
