Frost, Revisited

“Whose woods these are” — whose woods?
This is a God-damn parking lot.
If there were ever woods here,
it must have been a while ago.

This is a God-damn parking lot,
and a dull little patch of asphalt too.
It must have been a while ago
when this was forest. Just a mall now,

and a dull little patch of asphalt, too
trimmed and flat to make it easy to recall
when this was forest.  Just — a mall, y’know?
I’m not saying it’s better, but sometimes

trimmed and flat makes it easier.  Recall
the woods where tough decisions were made?
I’m not saying it’s better.  Sometimes
it was life or death

in the woods where tough decisions were made.
Now, in the mall, it’s pink or black, linen or cotton.
We ought to think about it.  Life and death
are still important thouugh we don’t decide that as obviously everyday

as we do with pink or black, linen or cotton, in the mall.
In the woods the choice was wolf or bear, get home or get eaten.
It’s still important.  We don’t choose that everyday, obviously;
still feels like the woods sometimes, that’s certain,

so we make everything a wolf or bear.  Get home, get eaten;
office full of sharks, city full of teeth, kill or be killed.
It’s still.  It’s important.  We choose, every God-damn day,
whose woods these are.