He just checked the knobs on the oven for the fourth time
To make sure they were off
As if his memory cannot be relied upon
As if it were a treacherous deceiver of deceivers
As if he may have turned them on within a micro second of the last time he laid his eyes upon the knobs
Without knowing it?
The short, black, thick lines still point to “off.”
He head nods to each one as if his skull were a checker of sorts.
As he is about to step out,
He feels a powerful pull:
just one more time. . .
he checks again (of course)
they are off.
Okay, I can go now.