A Beat Poet Is Teleported To Waffle House

I saw the best minds of my generation

disassembled in a flash of quantum static—reassembled under fluorescent eternity

somewhere between nowhere and Georgia

the sign humming like a neon oracle:

WAFFLE HOUSE

—and the universe said, sit anywhere.

Chrome counter gleaming like a confession booth

for sinners who confess in hash browns,

scattered, smothered, covered—

a holy trinity of cholesterol and hardened arteries.

I arrived barefoot in the middle of booth seven

steam rising from my shoulders

like I had just been exhaled

from the lungs of God or maybe a broken toaster.

A waitress named Debra?

or Deborah?

or Deb?

Wore her name like a lowercase truth—

poured coffee into my existence

before I could remember having a cup.

“You look like you came from somewhere,” she said.

“I did,” I said.

“But it didn’t have waffles.”

She nodded,

as if this explained everything

about time

and men

and why they appear anywhere.

A man in a trucker hat was arguing with infinity

over whether bacon is a concept or a promise.

“I asked for crispy,” he told the void.

The void sent it back.

I wrote a poem on a napkin

about syrup as a metaphor for inevitability

but it stuck to my hand

and I licked it off

and now I know things

about sweetness

that should be illegal in at least nine states.

Somewhere a cook named Earl

conducted the orchestra of the grill—

spatula tapping Morse code

to a universe that only answers in grease pops.

Eggs cracked like small epiphanies.

Time flattened into circles of batter.

I asked Debra if this place was real

or just a layover between dreams and awake.

She refilled my coffee like a philosopher.

“Honey,” she said,

“this is where people come when the rest of the world

doesn’t know what to do with ‘em.”

Outside, reality flickered like a broken sign—

inside, everything held together

with syrup and quiet understanding.

A woman in the corner booth

was crying into her grits

like she was baptizing her sorrow

in butter.

No one looked at her.

Everyone looked at her.

This is the paradox of Waffle House—

you are invisible

and completely known.

I checked my pockets for time—

found only lint

and a receipt for a moment I hadn’t lived yet.

Debra said,“You staying?”

I looked at the door—it led everywhere else,

which is to say, nowhere worth going.

I looked at my plate—golden, infinite,

a geometry of comfort.

“I think,” I said,

“I just got here.”

And somewhere in the humming grid of existence

a switch flipped—

and the universe leaned over the counter

and said:

Order up.