While It Announced

The beeping had rhythm—

four sounds, a pause, four more—

and I stood there like I was blind.

The pasta was already soft, dissolving

in the pot, but the timer owned the kitchen.

Kept announcing. Kept insisting

that time had passed and I had failed

to pay attention. Failed to find

any way forward. Red numbers blinking:

11:47. 11:47. Even the machine

had stopped believing.

I let it beg for a full minute.

Let it pull me under, let it remind

me that I was too slow. Too late.

By then the pasta was mush.

My hands were empty. My head declined

any responsibility for what I'd done.

That's the thing about sounds—

they show you where you are.

They show you what you're designed

to become: someone who stands still

and listens while something announces

you've failed.