While shaving I listen to the sound of the fan,
Plying its trade,
This house is empty.

I wonder,
Does it ever get tired?
Weary of the day to day grind;
My need for its constant companionship?

The sound takes me back
Down the red dust roads of Georgia
In through thickets of Bamboo,
And Honeysuckle vines
To my old room
Where I lay in bed
Too hot to sleep
The ceiling fan pacing round and round.

If you blink real fast,
You can freeze frame the blades
And see them clearly.

I used to pass time this way
And the blades took on a blush
In the glow of the street lamp.

Seems the attention of my eyes
Caught them naked
Vulnerable

Adam and Eve
Caught up in the eyes of God.

J.P. Burnside
americanchamps@yahoo.com
all rights reserved by J.P.Burnside
3.6.2003
Buffalo Wolf Press, 2003