Turn
as I blink my eyes twice.
Or at least when I tug
on your chord,
stop rattling and gyrating
above me.
Plastic arms
without purpose
or pleasure,
forever open.
Stop staring needily
from the ceiling.
A loose screw, perhaps
or warped wood,
misaligned, grinding,
half hidden below years of dust
from visitors,
from both of us.
You have no light
to lend.
Turn only when given a
push-start by hand.
And then that sarcastic
little squeak
signals your defeat.
No one hears you,
buzzing madman!
And yet you’re hanged
with white strands.
Don’t think innocence
will save you
from the can,
my defective fan.
Artwork: “The Beauty of Defective Print” by Brazilian artist, Gabriel Grecco
I accepted a challenge from my friend, John Malone, to write a poem about an inanimate object, and so I’ve tried my hand at writing one that leaves the reveal to the end. Well, I don’t think I’ve quite gotten that bit, but it was good fun trying both of these things. What inanimate object around your place has something to say?
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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