in that little room

[xmy.only.exitx]

in that little room
where the fan turned slowly
above his bald head,
hanging from a thin wire,
cutting the air into humid chunks.
i felt claustrophobic.
i felt claustrophobic because
he occupied half the space
and the other half
was taken up by his big machine.
his face was big and friendly
and his fingers were sticky with sweat,
because his fan turned slowly,
above his bald head.
the table he wrote on was of wood
and his floor was made of earth
so ants could climb up his pants
and his table always shook.
but he didnt mind it
as he chewed at his pen tip
frothy with spit, and rough at the edges,
abused for so many days.
he asked me to sit down
he showed me a plastic chair
i preferred to stand up
i wanted to run out.
out of his damn shop
out of his smiling range,
with his sticky fingers
extended for a handshake.
a lizard ran across the wall behind him
bottle green on his flaking paint.