Low Ceiling

The floorboards are hard and honest against my spine.

I’m watching the blades chop the air into sections,

a steady, three-speed blur of a life like mine,

moving fast but without any real directions.

A brass acorn sways on the end of a string,

dancing a half-inch out of time with the rest.

It’s a small, frantic, and distracting thing

that keeps the heartbeat heavy in my chest.

I reach up and click the power to the wall

and the world slows down to a greasy, gray crawl.

There’s a thick layer of dust on the leading edge,

just sitting there, waiting for a ledge.