Off-Balance and Humid

The blades are dragging through the thick night air,

A twelve-dollar bargain that’s barely there.

A loose screw clicks a rhythm in my head,

While I’m sweating through the sheets upon the bed.

The pull-chain swings in a frantic, wild arc,

Striking the yellowed glass inside the dark.

It’s off-balance, shaking the plaster loose,

Running on a motor that’s running out of juice.