Forced Rhymes
A whiff of my kitchen, a medicinal pill,
the side order of rain drools at a windowsill.
An utterance precedes a service; the rumble,
the window slides itself shut. A bumble
bee ricochets off a glass pane
moaning louder than our train
of thought waylaid with bacon sizzling up a storm.
There's an anxiousness trapped inside as warm
as indoors petrichor's marshmallow mood
steamed under nostrils fused above burned food.
A swirl follows itself in a perfect circle
on a smartphone screen. The attentive middle
of somewhere where I don't know where I am headed
while time and place are forgettably wedded,
O lips lit up, no doubt, by the whitening screen,
words digitize what would otherwise burn green.
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