Coin in the Palm

Verse

I oil the gears with a tea-stained square,
trim the wick where the salt hangs thin.
The lamp house leans like an old tin chair
toward a horizon scored with cratered tin.
I polish the globe at dawn, slow as prayer,
send a tiny mirror winking over scarred tar.
I tend sunflowers in biscuit tins, hair-pin bright,
count the first gull like it’s a coin in my palm.

Chorus

Oh, I keep the little signal bright,
just a wink across a silver seam.
Though the sea cartwheeled off the map one night,
I mind the lamp and the morning learns to gleam.
I keep that beam for one, then two,
then for a flock that settles and stays.

Verse

There’s a record’s whisper in the spare-room breeze,
a battered ukulele with seaside twang.
I fold my sleeves, hum to steady my knees,
watch the lamp count seconds in its glassy gang.
Gulls bring small stories with salt on their toes,
peck at saucers where old tea rings lie.
I jot the sky’s change in the seam of my clothes
and mutter the tally to the first clear cry.

Chorus

Oh, I keep the little signal bright,
just a wink across a silver seam.
Though the sea cartwheeled off the map one night,
I mind the lamp and the morning learns to gleam.
I keep that beam for one, then two,
then for a flock that settles and stays.

Bridge

spoken word

When the haze lifts like a stage curtain and the lamp’s last task is done,
my little mirror catches only my eye — still, that’s enough of fun.

Chorus

Oh, I keep the little signal bright,
now it winks toward a larger day.
The gulls tuck warm on the sill at night,
and the sun, like a coin, slips up to stay.
I kept that light for one, then two,
and it turned into a harbor of ways.