by Megan Watkins

At the tunnel mouth we lie, where the water pools
and the ducks won’t paddle. He introduces himself often
and guesses my name, his generator runs forgotten
and he sings loudly along while I’m trying to describe
the difference between starling and blackbird song.
Under the overgrown tree and down the overgrown stairs,
locked out of Angel, locked in with six bottles of wine
and a bottle of whisky, I saw him once away from the boats
unable to walk on land. He goes to sleep with the candles lit,
every day his lucky day, every morning he asks who I am
and tells me his name again.