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.


take me home.

darkness that is almost
one red hot dot.
a car passes by
and I see the curve
of her body.

I can see her
and that scar when we
got drunk and smashed
bottles behind the
drug store.

she takes a long drag
and tells me that she
can’t do it anymore.

it’s not high school-
we aren’t kids now.

she pretends that she wants more,
that she wants to go to college
and wear a lab coat.

she just wants to steal
oxycodone from work.

I think back to that night.
When she kidnapped me.

took me to the lake
sitting on a picnic table-
hearing soundgarden
and weezer
in the distance..
from her white Merkur.

beers and shots
came out in the dark
I can’t see what
I’m drinking

‘take me home’ falls out of me.
I can’t handle the unknown.

I go back
to when we would
walk home from school
in the 5th grade.

It’s not the same.



sundownriding towards the light
to unfinished concrete
and soft grass.
that one cement seat
for rain and filth
we sat and wished
of riches, women, and fame.

as it set past the land
we wished of love,
and parents that never fought.

it was always the same
frustration, hope and fear.
it was never the same
hormones, sex, and anticipation.

riding away from the
purple and orange.
hoping and dreaming.
we had sat upon the concrete
and knew that was our

to wish, to dream, to imagine.
a secret shared.
a hope confided.
a future dreamed.
I sat at home.
looked to the sky
ignored my life,

and knew.

Hooker Love.

musty cotton sheets

soft, hot skin, sweat.

she smells like cheap

patchouli and benson & hedges

freckles on her thigh, her

arm resting on her drooping tit.

she buries another fucking butt

into the ashtray and asks

when I’m going to get a

curtain for my goddamn shower.

she likes the avocado ones

with mushrooms on them.

I tell her she’s a moron and

can’t pick it out.


the ashtray

empties in my face

her fat ass and small waist

gets up.

she still smells like

sex- her legs wobble

and buckle as she sits on

the toilet.

my door doesn’t lock.

she wants breakfast.




the bitch wants me to keep

paying for a relationship

that usually lasts an hour.