False Security

The kitchen is a lung full of gray.

I forgot the bread was under the coil

until the smell of char

hit the back of my throat.

Up there, the plastic puck is quiet.

It’s wearing a sweater of dust,

a fine, felted layer of lint

that hasn't been disturbed in years.

It didn't even blink.

I could have turned to ash

and it would have just sat there,

holding its breath with me.