"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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