there was this

old Bodhisattva of the
campground NC night
in Joe Rafsky head lamp
and old torn southern
baseball cap, savior of dying
fires or young blue flames,
young sapling stake of wood
in hand, wrapped in some
indiscernible newspaper of
Buxton, Ocracoke (like the
vegetable and the soda, ya)
frisco, and bang the fires
going as the thunder creeps
nearer and then he's gone into 
the past or the wandering, looked for
him for 2 days and he wasn't 
nowhere in that place, patron
saint of the mosquito infested
air, 

we finished the last piece of
meat as the rain hit harder,
the hiss stronger on the cooling
grill, the steam thicker, coals, gray and sad, 
fire, embers and out, we
ran for cover through 
puddles that had just found their way
at our feet and closed car doors tight, 
out of breath and soaking,

the lightening caught up
and flashed southwest across
the starless skysea