The Wind-Up

The roommates took the car and left,

the kitchen’s silent, feels bereft.

I’m watching water start to boil,

a frantic, bubbling, silver coil.

I twist the dial, slick with grime,

to mark the passage of the time.

The red is gone from five to eight,

a blurry, faded, plastic fate.

It rattles like a dying fan,

inside its little plastic can.

A mechanical and angry beat,

until the egg is finally heat.