Nightwalk

It's midnight.
Three or four miles away from the shack
and walking...

Hands in my pockets,
Cigarette in my mouth,
And icy breeze slapping against my face.

Mindless
Of the roaring dark skies near the horizon,
Of the waves that gently strike my bare feet,
I walk on the shoreline,
Along the path of the burrowing crabs.

I pause
And my eyes
Narrow upon a distant, solitary light.
Is it the ritual dance of a glowworm
Or the blink of a lighthouse?
My head spins,
My legs give away,
And my mind hits a blank.

I should have stopped at the ninth beer.