i'm watching the ceiling fan blades chase infinity.
my mind runs after them
and my old friend jack white reads to me from a book.
but i'm not listening. not really.
tuesdays were never the days on which wars end anyway.
i have a heart condition.
the ceiling fan is being very still.
my face is sweating.
i can't think of anything but urethane.
i dreamed my hair was silver but my face was a baby's.
and all along i thought i would be sick soon
so i put on the red mocassins instead.
and turned on the box fan.
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i remember reading this a few days after you wrote it and thinking: this poem is about a specific day spent at your dinner room table this summer... i remember it clearly. and maybe its not about that day for you but is for me.
it brings me back to those beautiful summer days when it was just me and you. me and you.
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