What Shall She Do?
The crone tucks her chin down into her woolen cloak
as she heads down Harris Street to that little pub
for a mead before hiking back to the log hut.
She’s full of tarot cards and mincemeat,
tender morsels of fresh plucked carrots
and a yen for that mead.
She wends her way to an empty table
in the back of the pub, settles with a nod to the bar keep.
Honey mead on her tongue leads her back to ancient times.
A ruckus erupts and she looks up to see ol’ Charlie tumble
to sawdust. Charlie, the bar stool messiah, an angry man on land.
She watches as he rights himself and orders another shot,
nodding at the elbows on the bar and orders a round for the house.
The crone slugs down her mead faster than desired.
She knows a free-for-all will happen before the moon is high.
It will sort itself out but for the now,
she doesn’t know what to do with a drunken sailor.