The kettle shouts before it’s hot,
Announcing urgency it’s not.
At five a.m. it starts a war,
With sleep that hadn’t closed the door.
I beg it softly, tap its side,
It whistles louder, full of pride.
The water barely starts to steam,
Yet kettle acts like world-ending scene.
By breakfast time my nerves are gone,
The kettle hums like nothing’s wrong.
It sits there smug upon the stove,
A metal throat that loves to prove.
Guests jump when it clears its throat,
Assuming danger in each note.
The kettle thrives on mild alarm,
A household siren without harm.
Yet still I fill it every day,
Rewarding noise in warm display.
For tea forgives what sleep denies,
And peace arrives once steam subsides.
