Everything Harbors a Story
By Stewart Jackson
I am sitting.
The Chapel is quiet this morning
with only the sound of the fan
I found once in a garbage can
tossed by one who had had enough of its
pushing air around. Maybe they felt
pushed around by this place,
this life,
this world and the fan had to go.
It has lost it's protective cover
but the blades are plastic and won't cut me
even if I make a mistake.
Some days are like that.
