The Ceiling Fan

The sun is hitting the carpet in a way

that makes every speck of dust look like a choice.

I didn't think I'd be here to see the gray

creeping up the wall, or hear my own voice

asking the air where the money went.

There is a glass of flat soda by the bed,

a sugar-brown puddle where the fizz spent

all its life. A moth is floating there, dead,

its pale wings stuck to the sticky glass rim.

It must have seen the light before the fall.

The room is quiet and the light is dim,

and I am just a shadow on the wall.