• poems,  poetry

    Late Night Waffle House.

    8:15 A night of family and awkward glares from past loves. Beer in hand smirking and shaking hands. I bite my tongue. 10:30 Driving. We need food. Greasy, cheap, food. The truck stop comes and goes. Waffle House. 10:37 Car parked. Holding hands as we walk up the steps. Worn red vinyl and chrome chairs prop the doors open. It’s stale thick and greasy inside. A once tall man greets us. Sergeant bars on his apron. Bill shakes my hand and we sit at the counter. She asks for quarters. Louis Armstrong and Otis Redding spill from the jukebox. Short order cook named Brandi fries up a banquet. Plates appear…