under a bowed oak more appropriate for two lovers tryst,
in a grass grown field on an empty back forty., with a full tank
of petrol, he would park, smell from his little tanks,
lose the day  the night his sense.
His Honda 50, turned on its side he might
have wished in his brilliance, for a spark.

He always came back cross eyed dizzy, reeling saying he talked with god.
I believed him. His tortures
were worthy.

I saw him again 1987, he was smiling. He could not talk.
But he smiled like he had seen god,
then would
**** his pants,
the same look on his
face .