In the kitchen,
I cooked the rice
in the cooker on the stove
and rambled out of the kitchen
with the plethora of poetry
in my mind.

After boiling,
the rice broth simmered
out of the cooker,
turned the firewood
Into charcoal
without the source of heat
on the rice cooker.

I mused the words
falling out of my mind
on the mucky ground,
and scribbled the poetry.
I'm never aware
of the dirt and dust
adhered to these words.

I'd not digest
the rhythm of my poetry
as the under-cooked rice.
Perhaps I'm so much hurry
to serve my dinner
before the rice well-cooked.