A Sad Song.

The fan churns humid, spent air.
Spreading the funk, the heat, and the perfume of sex.
Too hot and sticky to think, we drink and drink.
Sweating walls are food and a home for creeping fungi.
Rotten birthmarks of penicillin have colonised the room.
Teal curtains block out the seeking Sun.
People are melting beyond that veil; It’s dangerous out there.
Two bottles of red drained are now candle holders.
We baste in the heat, half asleep, half dead.
Cheap speakers speak, in a tinny, bass-free tone.
Edith Piaf laments:
Adds a smothering gloom,
To the dim-lit room;
Inimical, her depressive style.
Staring at the ceiling fan,
And not knowing a word of French,
We whir along to the sad song.