I am the plastic folding chair.
He rests his heavy elbows there.
He smells of brine and old diesel fuel.
The midnight wind is sharp and cruel.
Spinning in a circle of white.
Washing out the ghosts of the night.
Cold rain on the glass of the door.
He doesn't sail the seas anymore.
His coat is soaked in a greyish hue.
A faded patch of maritime blue.
He watches bubbles rise in the drum.
While his tired fingers start to hum.
Spinning in a circle of white.
Washing out the ghosts of the night.
Cold rain on the glass of the door.
He doesn't sail the seas anymore.
He speaks to me of the North Sea swell.
Of depths that only the anchors tell.
He keeps his ticket tucked in his glove.
A scrap of paper, a token of love.
Spinning in a circle of white.
Washing out the ghosts of the night.
Cold rain on the glass of the door.
He doesn't sail the seas anymore.
The street is slick like a polished stone.
He stands in the puddle all alone.
The dryer hums a low steady beat.
While wet leather boots soak in the heat.
The clock ticks slow on a yellow wall.
He waits for a wind or a distant call.
The scent of bleach and the salt of the spray.
Turning the midnight back into day.
He folds his shirts with a steady hand.
A stranger now in this concrete land.
He leaves a coin on the metal tray.
Then turns his collar to walk away.
Spinning in a circle of white.
Washing out the ghosts of the night.
Cold rain on the glass of the door.
He doesn't sail the seas anymore.
Salt and soap.
He walks away. Salt and soap.
Into the grey.
