W. Doug Bolden
"Electric Fan"
If you have an electric fan going, some sounds have a tendency to sound like they are words being strung together. There have been numerous nights where I have thought about turning the fan off to see if someone really is talking to me. This is merely to capture that mood.
The whiskey rich noise of the fan's unsound
Whispers midnight to me
In a vibratto falsetto,
And I feel a need, an undesirable but
Unquenchable call
To listen to it as if it were words,
A conversationalized sigh,
But for lack of a friend
And nor for lack of a wife,
A life,
But because, well, we sometimes talk
To things,
For better for all the while.
The stars drip overhead, pour down
To the horizon
And the silence that is the great
Dome of sky
Resonates quietly for hours.
"There it goes,"
Says the fan. "There it goes,
A million fools repeating, again, the thing
They have been doing all along.
Falling down.
Screaming song."
"There it goes,"
On some other topic I have failed
To keep up with,
"Right out of its head.
Right out of its head."
The bed creaks.
I roll over.
The night continues on.
This poem written by W. Doug Bolden.
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