The Young Robert Frost

I thought I saw a young Robert Frost
and his wife,
her underpants the size of poetry

lay on the bedroom floor.
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them,
but Henry opened his eyes and didn’t think that anymore.

Sometimes a road not taken
is like a city park,
the summer stars reflected on aluminum foil.

Or snowflakes in winter schizophrenia
not at all scenic,
no two alike except by accident.

And did Mrs. Frost achieve orgasm
with all the right reactions
physical and mental?

Outside, the snow melted
into sludge
on the road less traveled.