Corner Cafe Comfort

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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.

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