Recently Discovered 1st Draft of Robert Frost’s “Road Not Taken”
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
So much so that it is generous to even call it a road
More of a trail, a path
A dirt serpent, slithering into the dark wood
But still, it has made a difference
I surveyed the pristine wilderness
Head held high
My back freshly patted
For getting out of my comfort zone
As my therapist repeatedly encouraged me to do
Even though the sign on the more-traveled path
Definitely said “Franconia — 2 miles”
And Franconia is where I was heading
I whistled a carefree tune and I —
I noticed
That tree
That had the weird knot that reminded me of my cousin James
I deemed it “James Tree” upon first passing
And there it was again
Unless there are two James Trees
In one wood
Which even to a humanities major as myself
Seemed unlikely
Oh god —
How many hours had passed
And I have made no progress
Am I dizzy from traveling in circles?
Is the path narrower than when I first trod it?
Are the trees closing in?
Calm down, Rob, you big baby. You can do this
Woodsman have nothing on a man of letters such as yourself
You’re Robert Fucking Frost
You can outsmart
Some imbecile trees
Oh man, I did NOT wear the right shoes for this kind of thing
My dogs, they were barking
As I took deep, panicky drinks from my canteen
In turn, my second big mistake
For now the water is gone
And I am still lost
I am going to die out here
I know that now
I will never make it to Franconia
Not sure why I took off my shirt
Or when
Mistake three?
I should write these lessons down that others may learn from my death
I tried lighting a fire by banging rocks together
It is harder than the adventure stories make it out to be
Fire seems such a distant, ungraspable miracle
Yet my hunger is all too real
I ate a grub I discovered on a tree stump
And threw it back up
Which commotion caused a stirring off in the darkness
Are there still wolves in this area?
If I survive I will tell people I killed a wolf with my bare hands
Robert Frost: Wolf Slayer
They will call me
I smeared mud on my face and torso and started running
“I am Robert Fucking Frost” I screamed at the imagined wolves
Until I tripped over an upturned root
The imbecile trees succeeded in my downfall
I laughed maniacally at the thought
Which turned into crying softly to myself
(Which only made my dehydration worse)
And then reciting my best poems, as I often do to comfort myself
And of which there are many to choose from
Because I’m Robert Fucking Frost
Writer of poems
Taker of roads
Slayer of wolves
Oh God oh God oh God
I am so cold
I awoke some hours hence
When the boot of a woodsman nudged at me
Ah yes, that is the footwear I should have brought on this trip
He looked aghast at my figure
Naked and mud-strewn
Streaked with vomit
Not 15 feet from the trail-head
Wait, when did I take the rest of my clothes off?
So many mistakes
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
When you go into the woods
Pack lots of water
Like more than you think you need
