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.