Addicted to Blue

Once he was addicted to blue.

Life was ocean, lakes, and I-miss-you.
Three chords of dissonance & the color
of mountains furthest back
in a landscape view. Then

came green, as in the great
conifer forests of the Western Hemisphere.
As in lettuce and spinach and lush,
long poems. As in American football
fields where he left too many hours,
too much salty sweat. As in gardens he

planted, doted on, weeded, watched
and watched. And the car, sometimes
filled with women's perfume
and voluptuous presence. Camaro,
the petrol beast was called, silver-green,
and in one of those black bucket-seats,
a wild, witchy woman with green eyes
once sat. Once sat and smiled. And was.

Then wasn't. Dead. And every so often,
blue, he thinks I-miss-you, addicted to blue.

hans ostrom 2023

In Broad Daylight

 Ancient sun, new day: mid-morning,

I'm about to get in my car with a cup
of coffee, big bright parking lot, when a man
walks up--his clothes and twitchy affect
suggesting meth. Asks if I can help his friend
"jump" his battery. "Where?" "Just over there--
he's beating on his car." As I myself

have struck a stubborn car a time or two,
I put aside fear of getting mugged,
drive over. The friend's got is drumsticks out,
playing them on metal under the raised hood.
Out of many front teeth, he's got just one hanging:
meth. Starvation-lean, some jail tats. The two

are living in the small car with a black dog.
We fiddle and fuss and finally get his car
started. The dog barks. Rolling up
the jumper-cables, he says, "Thanks &
god-bless. Nobody would help, nobody.
I mean, I get why they're leery of us,
but broad daylight, & all these people
around? C'mon. It makes you wonder
about the human race."

hans ostrom 2022

Ponca City Poem

Centuries later I'd learn
that Ponca refers to a subgroup
of Sioux and their language.

At the time, the car had broken
down in tornado heat,
vomiting oil. On our way

to OKC, we found a mechanic--
a biker with seasoned tattoos
who lit cigarettes with a blowtorch.

His wife ran the place. She was
stylish, wry, and composed
among the invoices, racket,

and grease. We weren't the first
to wonder how she and the sinewed
man came to meet and marry.

None of our business, her smile
assured us, before we could ask
out loud. I'd bet anything,

except the car, they were happy
in Ponca City, which repaired our means
of transport and gave us an anomaly

to ponder down the years. 

The Last Automobile

Hear that sound?
That's the motor
of the last car
to go over the cliff.

Now the authorities
will roll up highways
and store them in a
desert like old
spools of thread.

Wild horses will
look down on them
from synthetic, pastured
plateaus above.


Hans Ostrom, 2012