f. elliot

When the Waffle House was Closed

We found ourselves seated
on the parking lot curb
long after it had grown dark.
Our sun’s glory ingrained
a memory of itself in the heat
which raised from the pavement
beneath our muddy soles.
Alone we sat except
for a few men and a dented
red truck. They settled in
the truck’s black bed as one
tuned a guitar out of sight.
Then his song swept out; smooth
Spanish and stubborn cords
filling the lot like syrup in cavities.