Trunk of Ifs

One day I was

Thinking about 

Robert Frost

And Joseph Campbell.

Which way to go?

What to do if I could do it again?

What might have taken place

Had I wandered down the other road?

And as those thoughts of

What had happened

Mingled with might have,

I stumbled upon a

Trunk of Ifs.

A vague and distant voice

Muttered, “No one reads

The small print on the lid: 

Open carefully.”

I undid the hinge

And lifted.

Music came from deep

Within the crate. 

A guitar at first

Then joined by violin. 

Then drums.

And soon a bass and keyboard.

My Trunk of Ifs,

In a former life

Had been a juke box?

Or was that

Merely a clue?

I wanted to look

Into the chest

Almost as much
As I was hesitant.

What would I find?
How had I turned out?
Would I be more

Or less happy?

It occurred

That I had arrived

At yet another fork

In my journey’s route;

Another choice

To be made

That, most likely,

Would lead

To a similar container,

Perhaps crammed with hope

And stuffed with maybes.

And as the poem goes,

That made all the difference.