Questions at a Cafe

The 3-year-old sips

his hot chocolate.

His face expresses

pleasure. He tells me,

"Cows make milk."

"That's correct," I say,

as if he needs my opinion.

His grandma, my wife,

is at the cafe counter

getting her drink (I sip

my two shots of espresso).

The 3-year old asks,

"How do cows make meat?"

I say, "Well, cattle, male

and female, eat a lot of

grass and hay to make

their muscles big."

I dread the follow-up

question and in my mind

see abbattoir images,

hear horrific terrified

bellowing, smell blood. 

The question doesn't come,

for he sees grandma

returning to our table

with her drink--a cafe latte--

made with oat "milk."

Hans Ostrom 2024

You Hold the Door

You sometimes think, What

does any of this have to do with me?
Everything, of course. You and the
8 billion breathe the same air,
recycled from the air early Africans
breathed before the land
got named Africa. The children

bombs, bullets, and missiles kill
for not one single good goddamned reason
raise your ire, eve if you ire's impotent.

The woman earning her wage
at the cafe knows your name,
and you know hers, and you two
sometimes speak of San Francisco.

At any moment, someone you have
never met may need your help,
and you theirs. Still, a person

knows that others plan the future--
often by refusing to plan, often
with sinister, even evil, habits in play.
No way the future belongs to you.
You ask no one, To whom does it

belong?" You take a last gulp
of coffee bean syrup and watch
the woman pull the wool hat
over her ears and go outside
to smoke a cigarette, check
her phone, and be alone. On
the way out, you hold a door
for a stranger. He says, "Thanks,'
and you say, "You're welcome."

Hans Ostrom 2024

Ragusa, Sicily: Festival Blues

At the Alta Villa Trattoria in Ragusa,

Sicily, as the St. Giorgio fest rolls

to a finish, you listen to small brass

bands haul their marches through

sun heat up toward the baroque 

cathedral, which manages to seem

at once imposing and cute. It's where

a solid silver ark holds "the bones

of various saints," an old man told you. 

George, the saint that counts, remains

forever young in painted wood, gentle

face, white horse, sharp lance. Later,

in an evening without breeze, everyone's

had about enough of whatever they thought

they'd come for in the festival. A hard woman

with a fish tattoo stuffs her phone in her jeans,

disgusted. She'll argue with anyone who 

wants to and some who don't. A toothless

ex-boxer is spruced up in an official white

shirt and red bandana. The Alta Villa 

Trattoria's mostly for locals. It's a living.

Nearby, the guy who sells hand-made

puppets plays Ella Fitzgerald all day,

so I stay, buying enough coffee & water,

salads &sandwiches, & bottles &

bottles of water to pay my way. 

More Than Enough in Ragusa

(southern Sicily)

In Ragusa most afternoons
I sat outside a cafe locals favored.
Iron tables. I didn't feel at home
there but I surrendered
my touristic pose to become
a mere outsider. My presence
seemed to amuse the waitresses,
whom I tipped respectfully.

I pecked at salads, sipped
water and coffee, scribbled,
looked from shade out at hot light
hitting brightly painted walls
and old stone buildings. I
was a large man in a white
linen shirt, and ursine scarecrow.
So much more than enough
that place provided.


hans ostrom 2020

Train Station, Milano

Because you're exhausted,
not to mention privileged,
you rest in Milano's main station
and let it be a buffering space
between you and America's
grotesqueries. You wonder if
anyone uses the word grotesqueries
anymore. Prob'ly not. You can't deny
the passport in your pocket.

You prefer the station cafe,
which pigeons frequent. They
thrust their monocled eyes
into the mix, use crumbs
as dice, and gamble away
their past with glee. Their
conversations distill many
throated percolations. Same
goes for the people.

Words from many human
languages try the air. Your
wish not to hear American
English is granted. People
in the station are happy
to see each other, their
laughter isn't cruel, and
no one's belligerent. It
seems miraculous.



hans ostrom 2018

Museum of Design, Milano

in the cafe of
the Museum of Design
a warped table wobbles



hans ostrom