Old Stage Road

Who set this cornerstone
Of this farmhouse
so close to Old Stage Road?

Some old Finn maybe, anticipating
the coaches and sweaty Belgians
lugging families to Clinton,
or a wealthy mill owner
who would stop to water off
at the granite trough,
which is filled now
with daisies and marigolds.

He would talk with them of crops
and the new blacksmith in town,
and very rarely politics—
being so far from Boston.

He would not, (unlike me)
love the anonymity
of being settled
on this old porch chair,
raising my head
to the clammering jake brake
of a Kenworth logger
snorting down Old Stage Hill,
grazing so close,
but never noticing.

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