The ceiling fan is like a starfish
Stuck up on its white foam drywall
With amber wooden legs protruding
In a closed off air not so unlike the sea;
Its predator is time and me
I realize as it spins so fast
I'd never catch it. But
It won’t always be that way.
There will come a day
When dust erodes its different screws,
The wires of its nerves fray off
And I replace it.