It squats there,
a stubborn, chrome-bellied thing—
water pooled in its gut,
silent, sulking.
I press the switch,
red eye glaring back,
but the element hums with disdain,
no steam, no promise of warmth.
So I lean close,
murmur small consolations:
you are patient,
you are bright as the morning,
you will sing again.
At first, nothing.
Then a tremor,
the faintest sigh—
and suddenly a rising chatter,
bubbles shouldering upward:
a chorus of forgiven grievances.
And now I wonder
how many small appliances sulk,
waiting for words
I’ve never thought to give.
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