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Hans Ostrom
She brought the wrong clothes to Paris,
which wasn't as warm as imagination.
She borrowed a sweater and a coat
from me; also shoes, and the heavy socks
that made them fit. My sweater, especially,
seemed to enjoy having her wear it
at cafés, brasseries, and markets. I
explained all this to Balzac’s ghost
at his residence on Rue Raynouard.
Even though I wasn’t speaking French,
he understood immediately. I went on
to observe that almost everyone almost
everywhere works hard and life slips
past so quickly and then all of a sudden
you’re a ghost listening to a tourist.
Yes, yes, said Balzac’s ghost, but
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
My name used to be in the papers daily
As having dined somewhere,
Or traveled somewhere,
Or rented a house in Paris,
Where I entertained the nobility.
I was forever eating or traveling,
Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden.
Now I am here to do honor
To Spoon River, here beside the family whence I sprang.
No one cares now where I dined,
Or lived, or whom I entertained,
Or how often I took the cure at Baden-Baden.