I burned the rice again

I burned the rice again.

Second time this week, same pot,

same smell of something quietly deciding

around 10:47 at night.

The smoke alarm didn't go off.

Not enough heat, or not enough drama —

it only wants the spectacular failures,

not the small ones that just sit there.

I stood at the stove with the pot

and thought about who I'd call.

Then I thought about what they'd say.

Then I put the pot in the sink.

The next morning it was still there —

dark water, black ring at the bottom.

I washed it.

Looked up how long to cook rice

on my phone, for the third time in my life.

Wrote it on a Post-it.

Stuck it above the stove.

Made eggs instead.

I don't know when I thought I'd get good at this.

I don't know who I thought was coming.