This was a road; an old map told me so.
A trail, I’d say, and sometimes less than that.
It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.

It started as an even bed of chat.
A mile beyond the gate, it turned to clay,
And here the leaves have not been trampled flat.

I look between the trees to guess my way:
Among the oaks, a space one wagon wide.
Who drove here? Are their sons alive today?

And can I rightly say the old map lied?
The future’s not what maps are made to show.
Life’s like this road—it cannot be denied:

The way’s less clear the further in you go.
It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.

Tonight: me and you,
On the lake, in a canoe.
Oh, yes—that would do.

After Robert Frost

What is this venerable, hard-used tool? What is it for?
It lies inert, its days of usefulness over: gone with the thought,
The informed, actionable thought, of the father. The son doesn't know what he has,
But with a sad look, he says he will be happy to sell it to you: "For a—"
(Here he hesitates) "—two dollars." He also points out a handsome pair
Of gold-colored cufflinks. He doesn't know what they are made of.
You wish you could meet the father and go out with him on the Dauntless
(“Boat For Sale”) but spirit and thought have been borne away on angels' wings.

WE HAVE CASH TO BUY YOUR UGLY HOUSE if you will sell it.
Someone has a truck for sale, but don’t know how to spell it.
Handy numbers you can call when time is of the essence,
Babysitting, frisbee golf, guitar and banjo lessons.

Pups and kittens, ducks and chickens, rabbits, goats, and horses:
Sacrifices offered up to economic forces.
Business cards for people trapped in dying occupations—
Quiet cries for help disguised as friendly affirmations.