Old Men under the Stars

Most of you saw this one on the Short Story site a long while back. I decided to post each poem from Star Sequence here because I was hoping some of you might help me tighten them up before I submit the manuscript. Much obliged for the help.

About this poem, I have noticed an interesting pattern of response with this. Women seem to misunderstand what I mean with this or just dislike outright. I have no idea why. Men generally really like it. Maybe one of you has an insight on this. Maybe it doesn't matter. It's just a little perplexing. The story in this one is true. I really was touring around New Hampshire one winter day when I came across these old men talking about the Old Man in the Mountain.

Concerning the fall of the Old Man in the Mountain.
Natural wonder carved into a cliff face.

–White Mountain National Park,
New Hampshire

While passing through a gray
and forgotten village near to Concord,
I chanced upon a ring of old men
golden faced and knotted round a fire
blazing in the blackened shell
of the rusted oil drum
by a long deserted filling station.

Though the night was sharp
and clear, swirls of smoke
smothered the winter
stars feebly flickering ashen
as the spectral congregation.

They were workmen
or handymen, common
laborers and mostly
they were studying the snow
flakes catching on their shoes
or rubbing their twisted
hands above the heat while waiting
their turn to poke the fire
and watch the burning embers
light their companions’ features.

One remarked to his fellows,
The Old Man’s face
has fallen down, cracked
at the forehead and sheared
right off top to bottom, landing
in a heap at the feet of the mountain.

Another answered, I so pray
that one of those uppity,
snotty New Yorkers was snapping
a photo right at the bottom
when it fell, right on top of his ears.
And who do you suppose will pay
to remove him from the road signs?
Not the tourists or the governor,
nor anybody who could afford
the price, no we might just as well
go pick a new perch for him,
hammer out another granite face
and save the taxes.

Then noticing me,
Nikon slung over my shoulder,
they hung their heads and fell
silent and pale as the mountains
and the struggling stars above.