A succession of trees shadow
rows of soybean stalk.
Plows prepped to unshackle
meals for seagulls (and hawks);
A range of brokers plot
to extend windswept seams -
dividing land into lots
where you will sleep (where you will dream).
Jason Edward Coombs
I wonder what we’ll like for lunch,
it’s not Good Friday, yet all I find are fish
‘n chip joints without piles of newspapers;
predestined to protect famished fingers
from smearing the fishy oil
of pseudo headlines
into impatient eyes.
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.