Directions

His directions were unequivocal.

We must return to the trail we had abandoned

(After two hours of serious hiking)

If we wished to reach the peak of Mount Olympus.

We had not considered the man’s motives,

Until we had spent another three hours 

On our original path.

At that point we needed ropes and spikes to proceed.

Later, after we had again reversed direction 

And finally ascended beyond Zeus's Throne

To the upper refuge, when we learned 

That our good Samaritan always pointed the wrong way. 

When we first met him at the fork

Between the two trails

He did not seem like a jokester,

Intent on sending us to hell and back.

Was he sent by a higher power 

To test our resolve, or, was he

Merely a local, tired of foreigners

Who thought to lower our chances of surviving?

I picture this guy wearing bright red shorts and a green yodel hat,

Standing, mid-morning, at the roads fork, 

“Helping” other simpletons traverse this home of the gods.

If only I could help him navigate some parts of Boston.