It was late, after a reading, and we poets were hungry.
We’d had milkshakes earlier for dinner, then beers or
shots or wine. And a lot of poetry. Perhaps too much.
And poetry can only satiate a certain kind of hunger.
And so the Waffle House sign hovering just off I-70
called out to us, was a sort of beacon in the night sky,
and our small caravan pulled off the freeway for grub.
We sat at the counter and the waitress was sweet to us.
I think we all ordered breakfast—several of us getting
their hashbrowns scattered, smothered, and / or covered.
It was clear the Waffle House chef took pride in his work.
Pavey covered the bill, saying that he knew it isn’t easy
being a poor poet on the road. He was right about that.
And one last gift, before we headed our separate ways,
was a poem, recited from memory, in the parking lot,
there, with the cop cars, the holy Waffle House sign
above us—a poem about a Waffle House, of course.
And I can’t recall how it went exactly, or even what
it was about, save that it mentioned a Waffle House.
But I think that I remember Pavey quoting scripture
in it, citing text some people believe came from some
great unseen, all-powerful, all-knowing force of life.
And for a moment, I believed in something greater
than myself, the spirit moved me, there in, or just
outside of, Blue Springs, MO in that Waffle House lot.
I don’t believe it was God I felt. I think it was poetry.
____________
Scott Silsbe was born in Detroit and now lives in Pittsburgh, where he writes and works as a bookseller.
Rusty Truck 