The Inn at the Pass

It helps to think it exists, even if
The writer exaggerates the kindness
Of the innkeeper and the villagers,

The charm of the tea and bread served on rugs
To travelers caught in high country ice,
Everyone pitching in to get them through.

It helps to think that, somewhere in the cliffs
Between adversarial militias
And warlords backed by nation states killing

For dominance, there is a low, blue inn
In the mud and the snow, goats in the street,
A shed filled with spare mechanical parts,

Locals helping strangers get crossed over
The pass, get trucks patched, get some food and rest,
And then, on you go, never to come back.