I feel like a grilled cheese sandwich.
Well, not “feel” as in my arms feel
the burn of the mid-afternoon August
Sun or that my insides are melting
Because we don’t have air conditioning.

Nor do I mean my hands are touching
something with sandpaper like texture
similar to bread toasted to perfection.
I rarely use “like” that way. It’s not
even a feeling initiated by my stomach

making my mouth water. To make the last
grilled cheese that could extinguish
this ache you’d need Texas toast, grass-
fed butter, a British style cheddar
and the cast iron skillet my Grandmother used to love.