A Monosyllabic Essay on the Old GE Fan in the Kitchen

The rite on a hot day in each home is the twist of a knob to form a drift of air. I prod the old fan blade and send it to a slow grind and turn. It finds cat fur in the air and the grate sports flags of hair that ebb in its wind. This fan groans in the face of work and needs a new nudge to pick up drive. One push with the edge of my thumb on the blade, two, three, four, and the force wins. I move the jar that sits near it and clunks with the time and time and time of turns. With my coax, my wish, the fan is still just a head that shakes a slow no, no, no all day in a room where bread sweats.