the road less traveled

you place a book
at the bottom
of the door
to keep it open.
to keep the air
flowing in as
it moves across
the long green
lawn in the form
of wind. it's
a book of poems
by robert frost who
you can only read
in spans of two
minutes or less
without yawning
and going to
the fridge to
make a sandwich.
it's not that it's
bad poetry, or
unreadable poetry,
that would be
heresy, it's just
not my cup of meat,
as dylan would
say. it's tedious
and hard and
immedded with metaphor
and similes,
and mystery that are
all entwined like
thick green ivy
along the stacked
stones and wood
of that good fence.
it not only makes
me a good neighbor
but an indifferent
reader as well.