On not stopping by woods on a snowy evening

with apologies to Robert Frost

White snow driving across a winding road
and piled deep on the road
unsanded and unplowed.
White knuckle driving.

An SUV roars up behind
flashes its lights,
wants me to pull off the road
and let it pass.

Where exactly do you want me to go, genius?
Off to the woods, lovely, dark, and deep
where the granite boulders would make short work of my car's front end?

Or onto the shoulder, where driving one foot too far to the right
sends me over a cliff
unmarked by reflectors
unguarded by guardrails?

He surges past
splattering slush on my windshield,
blinding me.

I keep my pace, for I have miles to go before I sleep.