I picture Horse Rossin as a large avuncular man
Neighborly when it benefits the common good
Otherwise keeps to himself and thoughts of teen glory
Sees no damn reason why all men aren’t created equal

Expresses both horse sense and horse power
Sits in public in an old Adirondack on the soil side
Of old County Road cutting across Vineyard Haven
Sells chicken and duck eggs from a clothes hamper

Sits under what appears to be his personal home sign
A yellow diamond with black letters on a six-foot pole
His name printed out proudly, officially stamped large
He witnesses his world and his world witnesses back

White hair formerly blonde stuffed under a fishing cap
Formerly blue with a ripped Texaco logo
Well-worn jeans with 30-year-old LL Bean boots
In summers a yellow bowling shirt with Lenny in red
Stitched above the pocket, picked up at the Dumptique
Exposing arms dotted with freckles like shakes of paprika

I picture Horse Rossin pushing an old lawn mower
Through a field of plans that didn’t work out that well
But somewhere in the undeveloped and overdeveloped
There are enough bright flowers to water any eye

Each day the school bus rumbles down the road
He engages its passengers in fierce waving contests
The rest of the Rossins are invisible doing chores
Milking cows, making cheese, painting by the numbers
Frequently he repairs a broken axle, a leaky tire
Occasionally he mends a twisted point of view
An easy smile tends to push his ruddy cheeks out
Then relaxes so coolly into a deal-sealing smirk

He is his own man

Once a month he gives serious thought
To repainting the chair
But neither he nor anyone else gives a thought
To repainting that sign, replacing the letters faded away
Long ago did his last name start with a C, end with a G?
Gone unnoticed until now

I picture Horse Rossin with a vivid imagination
He exercises on gray days when the family is out
I picture Horse Rossin as a country gentleman
Determined to blend in with his community

He will always be his own man

Reminds me of my snarky college days driving
Along Route 84 passing Ashford, Connecticut
There was a damaged sign outside a roadside lodging
One side welcomed you to the Shford Motel
While the other side poetically offered you
Heated Poo
Colored T
In every roo