I came upon a house on a bend in the road.
An old man was sitting on the porch.
He was rocking on a chair and whittling at some wood
And he looked up as I came near.
"Sit and rest," the old man said.
"The road is long and you've far to go."
"I'm going to the City of Gold," I said.
He replied: "I know."
He pulled out a pipe and he started to smoke
And the scent of it filled the air.
After a moment, he looked at me and asked,
"Why is it you follow this road?"
"The City of Gold lies at the end," I said.
Nickolass just nodded and stared.
"I'm going to find my life's happiness," I said
And Nickolass just shook his head.
"Son, a city lies at the end
Of this path that leads you along.
But you will not find what you're looking for
Because it's not the City of Gold.
"What you're looking for you already posess
And need not travel no more."
"Old man," I said, "go on whitling.
I must be on my way."
I still remember the old man I met
At a house on a bend in the road.
And I remember the chair he was sitting in
And the wood he held in his hand.
Though I'm afraid I've made my choice
And must carry it to my grave.
Take some advice from Nickolass
And turn away.
Spring, 1990
Steve Morgan