Corner Cafe Comfort
Sometimes we sit in the tiny corner cafe The one with soft lights draped over heavy oaken beams in the ceiling We drink from earthenware mugs and wipe froth from our lips Moonbeams leak from above, pale and quiet, casting shadows that play at our feet If there is such a thing as a witching hour, it would be now The golden dragon sleeps, smoke pluming upwards like a sinner's offering His tail is curled around town square His heavy snores make the rafters tremble In the morning we have work to do Shepherds to their flocks Smiths to their forges Weavers to their looms Watchmen to their posts Merchants to their shops But for now we rest, sitting in a corner cafe where the moon settles and the golden dragon sleeps.