Hunger
brews in my stomach
like thunder rolling through the prairie.
Two minutes, five seconds.
The scent, nonexistent. The sound, unheard.
The bag spins like a graceful ballerina.
One minute, 45 seconds.
The scent, nonexistent. The sound, loud but separated
like tiny grenades exploding.
One minute, 20 seconds.
The scent, faint. The sound, loud but increasing in pace.
Smells like the moments leading up to movie night.
Sounds like a metronome tick.
30 seconds.
The scent, overwhelming. The sound, violent.
Your nose takes you to a cinema,
your ears bring you to a metal roofed shack in a hail storm.
15 seconds.
The storm passes, but the scent remains.
Syncopated pops.
Five, four, three, two, one, ding!
Like the final bell before summer,
swinging open the microwave door,
a wall of joy and a feeling of comfort overcomes you.