145 and Lucky

She can call him lucky
A son with a thousand sons
And a fear of death like
a moth to a flame
She can call him home
Some painting with a ship in port
He calls him undone
Threads bitten from a rope
What gets repaired,
their love under blinking stars?
It’s just the cold,
he says.
It’s better with me,
a man to hold.
I don’t really mind your love tonight,
summer sweat.
Lucky
Now I call him lucky.