He had taken the road less traveled. By intent. By design.

Until he had found that road closed due to lack of maintenance. Bridges were out, and the trees and foliage that rose through the path made it impassable. Eventually the road disappeared entirely and he was left in a frantic search for an on ramp to the main road.

When he was honest with himself he acknowledged that he had no idea where the main road was.

He could hear it, with cars whizzing by in either direction, but all of them moving forward. Ever forward.

There he sat, with no tools to clear his road, and no vehicle to travel the main road. He sat, and he thought about what a rat bastard prick Robert Frost had turned out to be. There and then he resolved never to take advice from a poet again.

In fact he made a mental note to punch the next one he saw.