The Road
by
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Someone else made this road.
I am not a trailblazer.
This road was made and walked
By many others before me.
The end could be a dead end,
It could be a cliff, a lake, a swamp,
It could be a forest, it might open
Into an emerald city or a wheat field.
The only certainty is death
Waiting at the doorstep
Of the end—everybody knows that.
Sometimes I close my eyes as I walk
Both by choice and because I am afraid to see
Where I am going. Sometimes
I break into a run, sometimes it is everything
I can do to keep moving, other times
I amble around like a lost bear, and other times—
More often in years past—I dance,
And when I am fully awake
I see just how many people have carried me a spell.
Most of the time I am looking at the ground.
Yes, stop and smell the roses and honeysuckle,
Admire the weeping cherry, and the sunflowers, I know.
I do my best. And even though I do not see
Where this road leads someone made it,
Someone else walked it. It may
Very well end in a ruinous cavern
Or a dark alley strewn with bottles and glass.
It may also lead home.