Waffle House Morning
Waffle House morning, 3 a.m.
snow sounding feather soft against
the plate glass window.
Coffee, coffee and more coffee
to keep away the darkness,
make the night stretch on forever,
put the dawn back in its box.
Pen scratches, notebook rustles,
one hand plucking restlessly
at cheese fries, cooling on the plate.
Turning to the window, which is
the reflection? Fingertip to fingertip,
watching steam build circles,
bridging distance with confusion,
obfuscation of the real.
In the distance, sky is lightening,
darkness failing, protection slipping
slowly, into yet another day.