The Wobble

This heat makes the air thick and dull,

so I’m on the couch, staring up, a fool

with a book unread. Just listening to the hum,

watching the ceiling fan, numb.

Three blades, wide and white,

they push the air with all their might.

But one, the one closest to the window pane,

has a slight shimmy, a nervous strain.

It doesn't spin true, it always lags,

a hiccup, a stutter, as it drags.

My eye traces the curve, the dust on the rim,

a tiny disruption, just for a whim.

How many summers, how many nights

has it turned like this, under these lights?

Pushing air, pushing thought, around and around,

making that soft, slightly off-kilter sound.

It gets into my head, that tiny sway,

like a secret rhythm, that holds me all day.

Like something's not right, a gear out of place,

but it keeps on turning, at its own slow pace.