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.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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