A Waffle House Poem
I didn’t grow up going to Waffle House. I don’t think I even set foot in one until high school. That may surprise you if you’ve seen my painting Waffle House. But however unromantic this makes it, I mostly painted it because I simply liked the way it looked sitting there in the sun that day. It wasn’t a special day or a significant moment and we didn’t eat there either. We were just getting gas next door on our way out of town.
Little did I know it would connect so strongly with so many— including a close friend of ours who lost her father unexpectedly earlier this year. He was a frequent Waffle House goer and she wrote a poem about it. When I asked her if she minded if I shared what she wrote, she said: one of the hardest and most cathartic days for my mom was the day that she went to Waffle House and read it to his favorite waitresses and told them the news.
Waffle House
I used to hate how you’d get restless
ideas bouncing through your head—
4 am and you’d get breakfast
Alive while the world played dead.
But now I speak in past tense.
I’m the restless one.
All the things I used to hate,
have become the things I love.
I walked back through those doors today.
She didn’t know you’re gone.
I watched her set down two plates—
And extra bacon for the dog.
Now Waffle House is Holy Ground
With the grease and all.
Your steaming coffee going cold,
But nothing lifts the fog.
Written by Natalie Sneed
