A Sad Song.

A Sad Song.
Lee.

The fan churns humid, spent air, spreading the funk of heat, perfume and sex.
Too hot and sticky to think.
Sweating walls are food and a home for creeping fungi;
Rotten birthmarks of mould colonising the room.
Teal curtains block-out the sun.
People are melting beyond its veil;
It’s dangerous out there.
Our fooling around is done,
Two bottles of red drained, we baste in the cloying 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.