It's 1949 . . .

... and the rural mountain saloon's
full of cigarette smoke and men, maybe
a woman or two, though the word gal
is still in use. One man's missing
a leg up to the hip. Another's
almost blind: the war. No one
shares their most private thoughts--
of death, desire, fear, poverty.

Glasses of beer and whiskey
go to lips. It's an age of basic booze.
Smoke goes in and out of lungs,
spiders up to the stained wood ceiling.

The bartender, red-faced, washes
glasses, empties ash-trays, wipes
the dark varnished bar, counts back
coins stained with dirt and grease.

Already another war is coming. Like
waves, wars keep coming. The bosses
of history don't visit bars like this
or live in towns like this or work
with their hands. Calendars
and clocks trick the mind,
and it's almost dinner time.

hans ostrom 2023

Mountain Saloon

Darkness in daylight and a sweet

whiskey smell said Hey

to six-year-old me when

my Aunt Nevada opened the door

to the Buckhorn saloon. I

registered a glowing brass

pipe running the length

of a dark varnished bar,

down where feet are. 

An altar of bottles--brown,

clear, green--gathered itself

around a long mirror.

An an antlered deer's head

eyed me. Aunt went back

to get broom, bucket, and mop.

She and Uncle owned the bar. 

After dinner, my dad freshly

showered would fall asleep 

in a chair before going to the

second job: pouring drinks

at this place. Tending bar. 

Caves, tombs, hideouts, 

temples, chapels, dens of

equity, harbors, imagined

carnivals of sex and power:

later I'd learn what dark bars

could become--neon glowing

outside, light in darkness. 

hans ostrom 2021

A Piece of the Moon Again

Drunks lose the sky. At night
they're usually soused and inside.
If outside they don't look up.
They're focused on the ground just
ahead of them. It's moving. They
focus on the cup that runneth
over. Soon their view

shrinks more. It retreats all the way
into the brain, where the brain
looks at itself. When drunks get sober,

their view enlarges. Circles and squared
expand. Slowly. Until one day
the sobering drunk gets back to sky.
The drunk looks up. Eyes and head
don't hurt. Eyes look at stars or
colored clouds, or simply blue
(all blue!), or a piece of moon.


hans ostrom 2020