Sometimes, it’s embarrassing
being a ceiling fan
for a man.

I turn myself in circles—
whizzing,
buzzing,
whirling—
just so he can have
the illusion of being cool.

Meanwhile,
he stays still.
Unmoved.
Unaware.

Never noticing
how much I do
just to keep the air
from feeling stale.

He doesn’t thank me.
Doesn’t see me.

Just mutters,
“Must’ve been the wind,”
and moves on
with his day.