Codes

 

Away from the storefronts and skyscrapers, the forest ranger waits

for his bread to bake – sourdough twists, a hint of lemon, a taste

that brings him back to life. He rubs the night from his eyes, tucks his green

shirt in his pants, puts on one worn boot after the other. His belt

buckle glimmers, a Kentucky horse racing in the small sliver

of light from his curtains’ crack. He hears the birds playing, preying,

mating, wishing he had one of his own. He shakes the thought and slinks

out the door, down his stairs, walks to his shed and puts in the code.

With a chirp, the door sparks open, his Jeep a deep forest color

waiting for him to ride, the beating drum he’s born to play. He spits

on his sleeve and rubs off some dirt. He hops in, locks the door, forgetting

his enemies only have paws. With his head in the clouds, as his past

girls would say, he zooms off into the day, helping, saving, rescuing

furry lives and the only hearts that promised him they’d always stay.