I stood at a fork in the road.
My car broke down and since my phone was broken I was left to walk to the closest gas station.
Which is always fun to do in midday when no one is around the road but me.
I didn’t even have sunscreen.
The sign in front of me read “FORK IN THE ROAD.”
“I hate when metaphors are taken literally.” I said to the wind.
Out of no where a young man not much older than me stood by my side.
He was wearing a suit that a man from the 19th century would wear.
His hair was pushed to the side leaving the top left part of his forehead exposed.
And he had an oddly shaped nose.
He looked kind of like a baseball player from the fifties.
Without waiting for me to acknowledge his presence he spoke to me, “I see you are at a fork in the road.”
He told me of the metaphor I already knew, “You see a fork in the road is when one must make a tough decision. Choose one path. Hence the use of the utensil.”
“Really? You don’t say?” I started to walk away.
He didn’t catch my sarcasm. “I wrote a poem about it once. Would you like to hear it?”
“No.” I was more worried about my car than his poem.
He flattered himself. “Who I am kidding? You probably know of the poem anyway.”
I ignored him and walked away.
He yelled aloud as I headed back up the way I came. ”I will skip to the end. That is the part people know best. My poem goes like this. I came to a fork in the road and I took the road less traveled and that has made all the difference.”
I turned to tell him to stop yelling but he was gone.