It has always been road taken early,
when further up ,too late to return.

how much of grass is worn in other
is not a matter of if only I had tried.

but forget a grass on the other road
think of a moss your bum rolled on.

bum is a rolling stone , road to road
a  confused bum with eyes popping.

bum does not  know if it was its path
or the  romanticized road , not taken.

whatever road is that was not taken
good it was not, in the deep woods.

there bum is lost in array of choices
new choices, with fresh confusions.

(Thinking of Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken)

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