melted; a poem

When it’s 32 degrees and my thighs are sticky,

I’ll lean on the counter and eat cheese on toast,

Then - when the taste is too much -

I’ll feed little strips of sweating cheese to my cat named Bean,

Who does not understand why I can’t make the soupy air colder.

And it comes to me, the realisation,

That as I sit on the kitchen floor and think about how the whole world is not enough for me,

A little strip of melted cheese is the whole world for her.