Beneath the beacon of the yellow sign,
The hungry gather from the midnight street;
Where golden waffles press in iron lines,
And butter melts upon the rising heat.
Across the counter, skilled and practiced hands
Turn simple hashbrowns on the seasoned steel;
All scattered, smothered, covered on demand,
With friendly smiles to crown a country meal.
The hour never matters when they call,
For through the dark the diner doors stay wide;
A steady refuge welcoming to all,
Where honest comfort never is denied.
More than a stop along the weary way: Good food that greets the night and starts the day.
Courtney Bosworth's Blog 