Village Hospitality Poem by Noah Smits

Flames up, the kind
that will illuminate the gloomy tavern.
Men come to find
love as a fleeting ride. The barkeeps haven't
taken off their bold apparel,
though in this kettle
steam shall arise.
Load up, the lines
out on the rainy streets of old Manhattan.
"Shed thoughts of time, "
say each in prideful expectation patterned
after all the rumors brash
in caches of trash
‘neath cones of light.
Hang up, tonight,
layers of dignity already tattered,
lay down the spite
toward the men unlike you who've been tampered
with, though with
the winds that whip
and lax the bearings of the hip,
know your presiding climatized position will be shattered!