The whistle of the pressure cooker
Goes on and on..
Wailing like a child in the distant,
Wailing in complain of the building up pressure inside of it.
When the tiny little outlet gets plugged,
The whistle dies at the lips of the cooker.
Up and down shivers it’s lid,
While the gas underneath –
glows orange bright.
Still, it’s kept covered.
Still, it’s left on the stove.
Still, the steam is held suppressed.
Feverish and trembling,
The cooker starts shaking..
Nomore can it whistle,
But instead, screaming in agony
As the hot steam burns it alive.
Then suddenly, it blasts.
Out flies the lid of the cooker,
Wrenched apart by an ungodly force;
Smashing against the opposite wall,
It breaks down on the floor.
Foaming at its mouth,
The cooker spurts pieces of boiled potato and rice globs
While streams of water bleed down it’s sides.
Destroyed by the heat.
Killed by the pressure.
There lies our dead cooker.
Amidst the rice, water and potatoes,
Upon those plain white tiles.