The acrid smell a bitter flag

The acrid smell, a bitter flag,

rose from the pan again.

This failure, like a tattered rag,

a lesson born of pain.

I stood there, watching fumes ascend,

a monument to waiting.

Someone else to make amends,

someone else, creating

a warm plate, a soft word. But the fire

that blackened toast, it flared inside.

No solace in this slow empire

of things I let others provide.

The bruised potato, round and pale,

stares from the counter’s edge.

This quiet truth will not derail:

my hands must learn this pledge.