Silent Sentinel

The towel caught the burner and blossomed in blue,

a sudden, hot yellow that shouldn't be true.

I waited for the scream from the plastic disk,

the mechanical panic that measures the risk.

But the ceiling stayed quiet, a round white ghost,

while the cabinets started to blacken and roast.

It didn't care about the melting of the vent

or the three years of time since its power was spent.

I swatted the flames with a heavy wet coat

with a dry, bitter taste at the back of my throat.

Later, I found the battery on the floor,

a dead gray beetle by the pantry door.