The Federal Emergency Management Agency even monitors a "Waffle House Index," 
a color-coded indicator of what restaurants are open, closed or offering a limited menu, 
to gauge how well an area will recover from a hurricane, tornado or other hazard. 
	—USA Today 9/13/18
 
In the wake of the storm, 
there's a home away from home 
with bottomless pitchers of sweet tea.
And we sit at home on Christmas morning, 
discussing the geographic prevalence 
of waffles vs. pancakes,
when someone mentions the Index.
We are dysfunctional but open for business.
 
Passing waffles, wounds, pats of butter, 
intergenerational hurts, rashers
of bacon, cups of coffee,
we argue about the veracity of the story, 
the reliability of the storyteller, 
the relevance of the study,
while resentments brew 
and holes fill with pure Vermont maple syrup.

Urban dictionary: 
One who secretly packs away items from a buffet into a bag, purse, or satchel for later consumption.

Bright eyed and bushy-tailed, I rise
and put on my brushed sterling silver
coat, hightail it down 
to the breakfast buffet
to see the many marvels on display:
plates of pancakes, eggs, 
provisions of oatmeal and French toast -
so many decisions! I tuck in
and swallow, I gulp down my fill, 
with coffee and orange juice, 
properly chilled.

When my stomach is bloated 
and my thirst at last quenched, 
I fill my pockets with small cartons 
of yogurt, apples, bread for my lunch --
a winter's store of acorns pinched 
without so much as a flinch.