I used to talk to him.
In the backyard.

Filled with
dog ****.
We never
cleaned.

But his old yarns.
Were as lively.

As the sky burning purple and orange.
In these
prairie sunsets.

I suppose he was dying.
Then.
But,
not dead enough.
To not be able to tell.
A tall tale.
Or two that.
Changed,
every time he told them

I got lost in his.
Used to bes.
And, people who
ain't no angels.
Setting each other on fire.
For five dollar debts.

But,
It went further.
Back then.

Moving boulders with his hands.
And the backstory.
Of my own little.
**** town.

Leather brown skin baked in the sun
every day.
Lost in things he'd hoard.
Mining for some
random signifcance.

I tried to find.
The patterns to his.
Crazy stories.

His unhappy story.

And, how entertaining they were.

Eventually.
He died.

And, the dogs.
Ate him.