Back Lot, Paramount Studios Poem by Hans Ostrom

Like a prostitute’s face, the facades
are blank and professional, ready
to be reeled into routine fantasy.

Objects and people here exist
in quotation marks: Two “police”
cars sit outside a “bank.” A “criminal”

gets made up. The virtual hush is
holy. Then someone drops a portable
light in the “barber shop.”

Ghosts of dead stars are paid scale.
Spirits of dead executives scrub
pots in the commissary.

Sunlight has an agent.
Shadows have hired a publicist.