Train Station, Milano Poem by Hans Ostrom

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