You recall them well

that wave of fake teak, fake brass

fivearmed ceiling fans

airing their wievs 

in every besserwisseer room

gone now

except in the 

'Greasy Spoon' type café

circulating what fat

which has not settled 

on table cloth or menue

Into the derelict and forsaken

blinded window house

we step

and notice one of them

still attached to a plaster ceiling

but three out of five

have gone with the wind

switched on they no longer

hum in the much vaunted

'three speeds controlled by a drawstring'

they merely flap, flap, drunkenly

and judder free, ripping 

penduling towards the

torn-up floor

the fans have stopped

on the Titannic

the dance macabre goes on,

and on, more airless every minute