A ceiling fan roams lazily among
stale air. Seated below a man,
his pants worn thin, a stained shirt from
past dinners; he leans, listening to a radio.
A voice wrinkles past square brown
cloth covered speakers, echoing on
naked plaster cracked walls.
Cigarette smoke lifts in a thin line,
absorbed into the fans eye, swirling
to a digested mist, captured in a pale
atmosphere.
Long shadows run the floor, covering his
feet, ticking slowly, offering an end to day.
He leans back. His face closes under
darkness. He sings into the corners of
the room. The sound warms his skin.
Roger Singer 