Wobble

The July heat is a physical weight

and the AC unit has met its fate.

I climbed the ladder to reach the string

and touch the cold, neglected thing.

My thumb brushed the top of the blade

where a velvet coat of soot was laid.

A furry, black and greasy grime

that gathered there over years of time.

The housing gives a metallic click,

a steady, dry and rhythmic stick.

Like a small bone hitting a dinner plate,

it counts the hours until it’s late.