The moon was strung low,
polite and unblinking, brighter
than the glow of a thousand stars,
but forever cast in shadow.

The coastline rose and fell
in the seesaw cadence of oil derricks
deep at sea, sound waves
peeling at the skin of sheered cliffs.

I sat passenger side and traced
dew drop fonts coalesced against
my window, and with every full-stop
a small dot would highlight key phrases.

Must be lonely, I said – and my friend
squinted. To be a lighthouse,
I illuminated. On duty each night
with no exception, yet widely ignored.

Broadcasting relentlessly, its only reward
sporadic, dismissive glances by briny drifters.
Replaced by modern technology,
rendered obsolete, save for emergency.

Reminds me of God, my friend
said, his headlights snaking
through the fog of the Highway,
tethered to stitches of surface roads.

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