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



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.









Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s