Budget for a Burn

The tallow hit the element and bloomed,

a gray-white ghost that filled up the room.

The steak is a cinder, a week’s worth of pay

turned into charcoal in the middle of the day.

I looked at the ceiling, waiting for the scream,

for the high-pitched whistle to break up the dream.

But the plastic eye stayed as hollow and dim

as the hollowed-out wallet I’m living within.

I remember the flashlight, the power gone out,

how I pried the battery out with a shout.

Now the smoke is a curtain, a heavy, thick drape,

and the red light is silent, offering no escape.