What You Are Not Promised

A poem dedicated to Waffle House (and other things)

As always, the content and images in this post are certified AI Free.

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This weekend, my two middle sons and I chose regret, gastronomically speaking. The rest of the family out and doing their own thing, the three of us loaded up and made a pilgrimage to that Southern chain diner that never leaves you wanting—Waffle House. There, we polished dirty forks, drank thin cups of coffee, and gorged ourselves on greasy fare.

It was pure, unadulterated magic.

I shared about my golden era, the days I bugged out of my tiny dorm room and drove 2 miles up the road to the place where truckers and night-shift workers retreated to smoke cigarettes and share communion. This was their church, their support group, the place they came to be called “regular.” There was no distinction between maintenance man or junior economics student. The food was the food. The people were the people. The class was equanimity.

“They let people smoke in these tiny box diners?” one asked. (This was their big takeaway.)

“Yeah,” I said. “Imagine it.”

Yesterday, I wrote a poem about that time with my boys, and though I know some of you don’t give a rip about poetry, sometimes it comes ripping out of me. When it does, I offer it here as its own sort of take-it-or-leave it fare. This poem is the waffle, the hash with diced onion, the smothered patty melt. This poem is a memorial of sorts, maybe even an elegy. Enjoy. Or don’t. But take a bite anyway.

The Fine Details.

We were not promised: 
old age, success, clean forks,
cups of coffee with