Stagnant Air

The heat is a blanket I can’t kick off.

It sits on my chest like a physical hand,

while the motor gives a dry, metallic cough

that nobody in this building planned.

Three in the morning. The pull-chain clicks

against the housing with every slow turn.

I’m watching the shadows perform their tricks

while the back of my neck starts to itch and burn.

There is dust thick as felt on the leading edge

of the wooden blade as it slices the dark.

It’s just moving the misery over the ledge,

never quite fanning a single cold spark.