A Woman In Paris Poem by Hans Ostrom

In an unambitious café
on one of the smaller avenues,
she took her evening meals. She
kept the objects, events,
and duties of her life orderly.
Was therefore surprised by love;
by a man’s kindness, crooked smile,
large soft hands. This pleasant
passion didn’t make life less
immensely mysterious to her.
Soon love concluded anyway.
He was a restless, ill-focused
fellow. Goodbye to him.
The café didn’t change, or
the avenue. Love like weather
had passed through. She grew
fond of cello music and neither
waited for nor ruled out another
incarnation of the love-phenomenon
coming up the avenue some day,
some night, into the laconic café.