The Ceiling Fan's Noir Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I fantasize about houses
And sometimes her free flowing legs,
Which shiver in the fortitudes of Pentecost,
Like the sustained and bleary kiss
The ocean’s winds gives the molting towers of
Palm fronds,
When lain in a dimly bed, Siamese
Gazelles in high nylon resting from nourishment,
The invisible smells,
Wet and quivering muzzles,
Fingerprints from other men and their little thefts,
Lay inanimate, but breathing, beneath the noir
Of the ceiling fan,
Waiting for the slightest breath to brush the
Flaxen hairs on her skin,
For someone to light a cigarette.