Wells Fargo Employee Found Dead at Office Desk Four Days After Clocking In

My feeble hopes embarrass me:

that she died quickly with minimal pain

(define "minimal"). That she found

the tunnel of light pleasing. That

friends found her pets, if any, alive

and saw to their care. That . . . .

She clocked in but didn't clock out.

She sat alive, then dead, for four days

while electrons of her colleagues

who worked from home flitted around her. 

"There are worse ways to go," I think,

followed by "Oh, shut up." Media told

the story only because it

is click-bait. I clicked. Her name

is Denise Prudhomme.

That One Night When You Were Eleven

Cold and dark already,

before dinner time, the long
bus ride up Sierra mountains
leaving you stunned: some years
later, you'd say "bummed out."

Your brothers--gone to suburbia
for high school. Your parents--
no longer in love. Outside--
true darkness of a wilderness,
your neighbor.

Boring homework, an hour
of TV (a single shaky analog channel
survived the canyons), books
in bed. And one night when

you are eleven, semen surges
out of you. The feeling scares, thrills,
and soothes you so much,
the door of a spaceship opens,
you enter, and you begin your journey
to a galaxy of women and orgasms.

You smelled the strange smell
of cum. You lay still in darkness.
If you said anything, you probably
said, "Wow," or "God." And time
and space rolled on beyond the mountains.

hans ostrom 2023

Important Reminder

It is important to remember
that at any given moment,
no one in the world (or any
world) is thinking about you.
And that is just fine.


hans ostrom 2019

The Sound-Track Goes with the Screen

They moved me to a different office
again. Nothing personal, although
they must admit I've been an unyielding
piece of grit (I said grit) in the academic
machine. Sometimes a crow

comes to the ledge outside the small
wood-framed window, three brick
stories up. Crows always know
where I am. This one looks like
a private investigator.

The office doesn't have a door.
I put up a three-panel screen
instead.  Film noir. It suggests
I can tell fortunes during office hours.
The other people up here aren't

in my department; rather, I'm
not in theirs.  What is my department?
In this tepid exile, I seem to thrive.
I prepare for class, read, write poems,
eat bananas, look online for art,

music, Oakland Raiders updates,
and arcane information. Lately
I've been listening to the wind's
long moans in the duct system.
The sound track goes with the screen.



hans ostrom 2017

Phone Nightspot

Weird night: went to this small
dark bistro, got inside--no one there
but a bartender texting on her phone.

The tables were empty except
for mobile phones, some propped,
some lying flat, two or three or

four per table.  One table had just
one phone--sad. I put my phone
on that table so the two could

get to know each other. Went
to the bar, ordered a bourbon,
and said to the woman,

"Start a tab, please, and I'm
buying a round for them all."
Her look soured. The phones

started to buzz, ring, sing,
jangle, and melodize. I said,
"Cheers," and lifted my glass.



hans ostrom 2017

Plain States

We drive a tan Ford in Kansas.
We're the heart of the Census.

We vote the person, also the Party.
We wash our clothes when they're dirty.

We like to shop at Walmart or Penney.
We save our money.

We like TV and ice cream.
We don't dream.

Our daughter's Mary; the boy, John.
When we fought wars, we won.

Why did you stop here, stranger?
Now you'll have to stay.  Forever.



hans ostrom 2017