Dance Like A Ceiling Fan


We waited
At the front door,
Patient as
Placed in
Fiction. Papers were cold
Cigarettes adorned the ceramic
Ashtray. He pinched a cigarette
Charred to the filter,
Analyzed its appearance
By twirling it at eye level. Ashes danced
And ascended to a ceiling fan,
Disappeared as dust. We had
Electricity and a basement
Where the previous tenant hanged
Herself. Her ghost sings
To the water softener.

What’s outside our walls,
But this?

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