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


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.