Oregon Bartender

 Ashland, Oregon

Pretty young and pretty,
she wears faded Levis
sans belt and a sleeveless
shirt. Blue arm tattoos

include butterflies and
vines and a cube with
a heart inside one box.
"It gets s-o-o-o hot

in Ashland in August,"
she says, going nearly
baritone for "so."
Blue bartender-eyes

don't miss a trick. She says
she tried a city--Portland
--but came back to Ashland
as most do. Oh, what

would William Shakespeare
do with you? I wonder
to myself. She sets a
mocktail mojito before

me on dark wood. I
think he would  do something
spritely with her--
                           mischievous.

hans ostrom 2025

Of Time and the Chickering

I like to give jazz standards
a good bruising on the old Chickering
parlor grand piano, which long ago
was rescued from the Buckhorn Lodge,
a bar in the High Sierra where whiskey
had been sloshed on some of the hammers.
Good times. I really can count
beats and measures, honest. But

I get distracted. I dawdle or rush,
freeze or trip. My fingers suddenly
turn into bear paws, then shrink
again back to size. Much depends
upon the weather, the atmospheric
pressure, the presence or absence
of crows in the area.  Anything
Ellington can mesmerize me,
and I start thinking about how
in the harlem he ever came up
with that chord or phrase. Sometimes

I just look into the deep brown
varnish of the Chickering, or stare
at the decal, Johnson Piano Company,
Portland, Oregon, and I wonder
what the route was from Boston
to Portland to Sierra City and finally
for a while, Tacoma, where the piano
had earned a restoration, where
it sat beside Cher's white piano,
which had also entered rehab.

I salve the blond
nicks with linseed oil
and always throw away
the rag. A tuner comes in
regularly, praises the tone,
rich and seasoned, whiskey-
tempered, long suffering
with regard to my drifts
into alternate space-time keyboards.


hans ostrom 2018