I Am Oatmeal
The oatmeal, beige and wholesome,
Clings to the pot’s edge, the spoon, to her.
Resting the spoon across the pot’s rim,
She hears its pop and hiss.
The smooth surface hints at calm. It hides the raging heat and steam below.
Until too late, it explodes,
Flinging that scalding wholesomeness
Upwards, outwards, everywhere.
Pressure released, the surface is calm, but waiting.