TWO TRAILS

TWO TRAILS

there are two
color-coded
trails at sweetwater
creek state park
one with fewer
hills than the other
each one
wide enough for
two horses
to walk side
by side and both
go down
to the riverbed
the forest ranger
who lives alone
in a cabin
at the foot of the trail
where the white path
meets the pink
he carries a handgun
in his back pocket
and never wears
a uniform
he told me last week
the city might
finally get
its act together
soon and put in
lampposts
he says he’s sick
of families
knocking for directions
after losing track
of the ribbons around
the tree trunks
I know he must
have liked plants
at some point
in his life
because he’s got
an army of tomatoes
growing outside
his front door
slick and fat
against my better
judgment
I think I’m going
to ask him for some
maybe bring him
a jar of my homemade
spaghetti sauce
next week
I am stepping
down the trail
like a tightrope
walker along
the curving lines
a bicycle has
made in the mud
we’ve needed
the rain I suppose
I can see
the forest ranger
squatting on a rock
above the river
shirt untucked
that odd-shaped pocket
he’s shaking a bucket
of weeds into the white
foamy current