poems,  poetry

Late Night Waffle House.


A night
of family and
awkward glares
from past loves.

Beer in hand
smirking and
shaking hands.

I bite my tongue.

We need food.
Greasy, cheap, food.

The truck stop comes and goes.
Waffle House.

Car parked.
Holding hands as
we walk up the steps.

Worn red vinyl
and chrome chairs
prop the doors open.

It’s stale
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 in
a sweep of gesture
and graceful apathy.

Gravy. Sausage. Eggs.
Pecan waffles, butter

She tells us about
her old man.
It’s not working out.

Bill remembers a Vietnam
reunion in N’Awlins.
Almost kissed a
man in a dress.

Brandi cleans the

We dance to
Conway Twitty.

a crowd of strangers
come in.
the moment is gone.

The drive home
is blissful.