Shadow Walker

In the after hours -
if one can call it that –
in the furthermost corner,
he finishes his ale,
(warm, as ale should be),
pushes his chair back
and straightens his robes,
stained with moon’s shadows, winter pale.

Behind the counter –
a rickety plank of sorts –
the barmaid shines a mug,
dark-stained rag in hand,
molded by bitter odors;
he nods, she pours
another frothy head that erupts
and dissipates like dormant volcanoes’ gas over land.

Near the middle of the room -
at table number seven -
the wager reaches its peak;
too many jokers that gaffle-gaw-har,
slurp-burp and foam fart -
coins stacked high, leaning towers
of promise, bent and rusted,
the moon pulls her veil down and then plays her card.

At the corner table -
where window’s whispered words
whistle the candles to sleep,
Shadow Walker melts, takes flight
into the shallow stone slabs
in the heart of the Red Lion Tavern
where the stakes are high
if you’re just passing through in the after hours of life.