The Waffle House
The
waitress is a goddess.
The
wounded eternal
slouching
half-attentive
marble
sculpture
of
daily life.
Not
mythological –
something
to really believe in.
And
it’s Sunday, how perfect.
Not
swan-like, but craftsman
she
emerges from a curtain,
walking
to the beat
of
our morning regret;
she grants us forgiveness
with
a cup of coffee
and
has an everywhere-presence,
the
way god
is
supposed to.
And
that’s really all we need—
not
papers to analyze
or
a burning light,
just
someone who looks tired
but
still
watches
over our warm drink.
Alexandra Kulik
My work has appeared in K'in, Maudlin
House, Punch Drunk Press, Bayou Magazine, Nthanda Review, and Black Fox
Literary Magazine, among others.
Tags:
Poetry