We lay down in our rented room
In the mid-afternoon.

You are on the bed, which is too small
To fit the both of us,

And I am on the floor, a pillow bunched
Under my head, staring up

At the wobbly ceiling fan, waiting for sleep
To finally take me

And I imagine the fan coming loose from
Its moorings and come crashing

On top of me, crushing me to death,
A mass of torn red flesh.

I think about all the other rented rooms
We’ve shared over the

Years, and all the wobbly fans I’ve
Slept under and I

Can’t help but think that I’m the luckiest
Son-of-a-bitch alive,

Having survived for so long lying under
all these whirling death traps

With you.