Stasis

The air thickens, sits still,

like an unsaid word.

My eyes climb the wall, tired

of the page, land on the fan.

It hasn't spun in months.

The blades, wide and white,

now wear a soft, grey velvet,

a quarter-inch thick on the leading edge.

Dust, a patient thing,

settling, accumulating,

reflecting a single dull gleam

from the window, a sliver of tired light.

It’s just there.

Unmoving.

Like time, sometimes.

Or me.