The Black Raven

The Black Raven

At the bar, Sunglasses stands,
his hair fifties slick. His hands
tattooed, fingers state:
LOVE and HATE.

From behind Roy Orbison glasses, black
as the long velvet collar or
short cuffs that turn back
against the royal blue of
his coffin backed jacket,
his eyes hunt the room.

Guinness in right hand, left thumb
crooked in the pocket
of his black leather weskit.
Still as a heron
but for one
brothel creeper, moving
almost in time
with rockabilly that thumps
from the jukebox.

Mouth drainpipes straight,
an expression, honed
as the pearl handled
cut throat that waits
in his pocket.