3 am Atlanta

A weary waitress dealt steak and chicken platters
off the arm; as the plates clattered,
gravy soaked the biscuits.
Two latino short order cooks nodded, sweating,
at shouts for some hashbrowns scattered,
smothered and all-the-way.

I drank coffee among truck drivers, shift workers
and Edward's other nighthawks. The
juke wasn't playing Tom.
Some choogle-boogie cut the silence like a spoon
- ersatz cajun lyrics southern fried chords -
in the Northside Waffle House.

A girl I'd come with left before finding out I'd lied
about my name, but not my number,
- tried hers from the pay-phone
by the off-the-peg raincoats filling the coat-rack -
the steady buzz gave the news
that she really was Gladys Knight.