Grilled Cheese

A robe-wrapped reflection on melted cheesy goodness

Sometimes, poetry doesn’t have to solve the universe or untangle emotion.
Sometimes, it just wants to sizzle quietly in a pan and smile back at you with melted joy.

This poem is a tribute to that sacred ritual known as… grilled cheese.
A little warmth. A little butter. A little love.

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Grilled Cheese

On with the butter—
The heat just right—
Glowing below it—
Red, not bright.

Sizzle and pop—
Bread in the pan—
Ever so lightly—
Just right if you can.

Place it just right—
Now comes the cheese—
Another slice?
Oh, yes if you please.

Now give it a flip—
Bread? Another slice—
Just browned on the edges—
That would be nice.

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Thanks for reading something a little softer, a little simpler, a little gooier today.

May your bread be golden, your cheese be melty, and your heart be just a little lighter.

If this piece met you where you are, there’s more like it waiting.
You’re always welcome in the lounge.

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And if this resonated, sharing it helps it reach the ones still looking for it.

Stay entangled, my friend.
—The Bathrobe Guy (Robes)