Waffle House Witching Hour

02:59 the towering yellow #FFF200 

and black #000000 

sign invites the wayward 

to a den of safety 

and sticky menus. 

03:00 double hashbrowns 

scattered, 

smothered, 

and covered, 

a chocolate chip waffle, 

and coffee please.

03:01 chipped sage greens nails thrum

against the table to the faint beat 

of Dream On drifting 

from the rarely used jukebox 

squeezed 

in the corner keeping the bathroom door 

from fully opening. 

03:02 digital slot machines ding 

from the cook’s phone. 

The beige, perpetually 

dingy mug of cheap coffee is 

screaming hot. 

Cream? Sugar?

03:03 coffee stains suggesting 

the shape of Pangea mar the smooth 

not-quite-brick-like tile. 

Cigarette-tinged breath hovers, 

ready to provide free refills.

03:04 premade batter oozes 

from the seam of the waffle iron 

forming edible stalactites. 

Potatoes and onions protest the sizzling 

oil on the flattop.

03:05 the child sleeping in the back booth tosses 

fitfully as the smell of all-day breakfast breaches 

his dreams. A glass of untouched 

diluted orange juice inches towards 

the edge of the table with each toss of his head. 

Hush little baby.

03:06 a slice of American cheese hushes 

the final complaints of the hashbrowns waiting 

for their debut. 

Sprinkled chocolate chips prepare the slightly 

crisped waffle for the ritual. 

03:07 the snap 

of the waitress’s gum announces 

the march of the value menu medicinal. 

03:08 does everything look alright?