Failure to Warn

I woke up in my sneakers on the corduroy seat,

facing a kitchen full of grey, bitter heat.

The potstickers are blackened, fused to the pan,

a total collapse of my dinner-time plan.

I looked at the ceiling, at the white plastic disc,

the one that’s supposed to manage the risk.

But the red light was dead, a dark, hollow eye,

that didn't even bother to give it a try.

No siren, no chirping, no digital shout,

just the smell of the burning as the fire went out.

I stood in the fog with my shoes on my feet,

feeling the silence make the failure complete.