Sonnet, Summer Night

It is hot in the bedroom
but not sultry, a humid stultification,
all the long day’s travails insinuated
within its red walls, abrogation
of the laws of thermodynamics.
A cheap plastic fan by the window
pushing warm air through warm air
like pissing in a hot tub.

When the storm blows in
there is an audible change
in the thrum-whir of the fan
like a pressure against pressure,
like anger making itself heard
over the ambient noise of fatigue.

Advertisements

About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

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

WordPress.com Logo

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

Twitter picture

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

Facebook photo

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

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s