Kelly Boesch - Counting Days in the Fog

I count the mess, and none of them are his.
The kettle sits; I never pour it at all.
I leave the lamp on for the boat that's late.
You said the nets would bring you back by spring.
I scratch each day until the window frame.
Every knock is just the wind again,
And I open up the door just to say— Count the days and count them slow.
Keep the lamp lit, let the fog horn blow.
Tide comes in and tide goes out; I'll keep the light on,