Chrome needle trembles on the Formica white
Coffee steam curls in the dead of night
Salt air clings to wool and leather worn
He plots a course where squalls and gales were born
Silver compass spins at three A.
M.
Silver compass drinks the coffee steam
No lighthouse beam to guide the turning tide
Just vinyl seats and nowhere left to hide
Waitress pours the bitter black brew
Neon flickers buzzing broken blue
He winds the crown feels gears engage
Remembers how the channel used to rage
Logbook pages yellow in his coat
Latitude inked by hand on heavy note
The needle settles north by northeast true
A heading found for something lost and new
Silver compass spins at three A.
M.
Silver compass drinks the coffee steam
No lighthouse beam to guide the turning tide
Just vinyl seats and nowhere left to hide
Fog horn memory in ceramic cup
Tide turns slow when morning pulls you up
No chart for this no buoy no marked sand
Just gravity and grain of counter land
Keys left on the hook beside the door
Light extinguished on the rocky shore
Compass clicks shut silver catches light
Another dawn another endless night
Silver compass spins at three A.
M.
Silver compass drinks the coffee steam
No lighthouse beam to guide the turning tide
Just vinyl seats and nowhere left to hide
Needle rests at last on wooden grain
Silver compass knows the way home again
