The fan
In the dead monsoon heat
I turn up the dial to maximum.
The whirring fan
opens a vortex
sucking in
the plastic
wedged between
the corners of a cupboard,
the painting
with men sleeping
after a hard days' work,
the loose linen
swaying uncertainly
from my limp arms.
With each nod to the rhythm
a brown paper packet of medicines
slowly drags itself to the edge of the table.
when it inevitably falls to the ground
it will drag itself against the floor
looking for a new edge to break its
compulsion.
Few things embrace
the energy of monotony
like The fan.
Each drop of sweat
moves uncomfortably
on my forehead
as The giant winged fly
hovers above my head.