The poet still sits at the table, writing....or trying to....his empty glass collection gradually grew from a couple, to a small army, as the liquor burns in his stomach. He looks up, at the widows' table, and then the wallflowers, and the bookworn, librarian highwayman drinking a bucket of Smithwick's.

He lifts his own pint of IPA, and tastes the bitter bubbles as they slide over his tongue, spill down his throat. He sets the glass down.

Then, he looks at the saltwater smudged words on his tablet...words that spread as the tears drip down his guttered cheeks, smeared the paper. He just shakes his head and writes on....this draft nearly finished.

The tune's distant strains
murmur on light air currents
through open windows
calls him, bewitches to track
the tattered strands of the song.

The fingered notes yank
his heart, pushes him to rise
from his bed, and breathe
goodbye in her ear, as his
lips savour hers one last time.

He walks from the room,
follows the beckoning song
as it calls for him
from the mist shadowed fog line
across the apple orchard.

He follows the song,
tentacles of mist grab him,
cool vapour fingers lock
over his wrists, his ankles
tow him deeper in the wood..

He strolls down the rows
between apple trees, stretched limbs
reach for heaven's floor,
he turns back, one final look,
then steps into the shadows.

He places the pen in the spiral wire that binds the pages together, and closes the notebook. Then, he lifts his last shot of Black Bush, and toasts, "To Pat, sleep well and safe journey." He pours the whiskey down his throat, then chases it with the beer.

Next, he slams his money on the table, including tip, rises from his chair, and staggers out the door.