Forty years he drove the midnight grind
Knew every pothole every sign
Now retirement fits like broken shoes
He reads the paper pays his dues
Silver compass in the kitchen light
Points to home through dead of night
No fare to count no mile to log
Just true north beneath the fog
Morning radio plays Hank Williams slow
Coffee steam rises curling low
His hands are maps of roads he knew
Each line a highway each crease true
Silver compass in the kitchen light
Points to home through dead of night
No fare to count no mile to log
Just true north beneath the fog
Granddaughter asks what the arrow means
He wipes his glasses cleans the scene
It don't point north child it points to where
Your heart finds peace in evening air
Silver compass in the kitchen light
Points to home through dead of night
No fare to count no mile to log
Just true north beneath the fog
Rain taps the window winter's breath
He smoked his last cigarette
The needle trembles holds its ground
The truest thing he's ever found
Evening shadows stretch across the floor
He winds the watch he wore to war
The compass rests in calloused palm
A quiet map a steady calm
Silver compass in the kitchen light
Points to home through dead of night
No fare to count no mile to log
Just true north beneath the fog
Silver compass hold the line
This old heart has found its time
Needle glints in steam and gold
Stories that are never old
True north waits where kettle sings
Home is where the compass brings
