Those long summer evenings of childhood,
when the air stilled, thick and sticky with heat,
and it became impossible to sleep,
and bedclothes into the living room,
camping out on the floor like intrepid explorers,
stripped down to our white briefs,
our thin cotton sheets billowing like sails
toward the uncharted waters of sleep.
We could hear the chirr of crickets,
and the thump of moths against the screen,
dreading the high and tiny sirens
of thirsty mosquitoes circling the dark.
We would take turns getting up to readjust
the old box fan, which rattled and shook, never
quite staying put but pulling itself forward
bit by bit, or turning slowly to the opposite wall,
as if it knew a better way out of this misery,
this engine to our imaginary boats,
so clumsy and so stubborn, though it was
all we had, its rusted heart and grimy blades
slowing and sputtering to a stop, then
starting back up again, shaking off its own sleep
for our sake, and always -- we hoped --
strong enough to bring us home by morning.
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