St. Petersburg Poem by Hans Ostrom

A stain on
linen is a flower
represented
if we see it so.
So we saw it so.

A train at
Finland Station
was a hope
represented
when we saw it
from the frozen bridge.

The old Russian
woman’s cough seemed as
deep as pneumonia. Still
she stood, posture bold,
selling bars of soap, rolls
of toilet paper,
on the sidewalk, Winter.

Famous tennis players—
Connors, Borg, McEnroe—
paced the lobby of
Hotel Nevsky Prospekt,
caged in
opulence, waiting
for the Exhibition
Match. They were merely the latest
invaders, would be gone by
the next evening on SAS
to London, and St. Petersburg’s
massive avenues continue, grandly,
to yawn.