Transformation: Footballer Poem by Hans Ostrom

(soccer, that is)

When I become a footballer, I run across
grass exuberantly but usually stumble into
thick mud as it were: halted. I become

two years old again and stab at and stomp
and kick things with my legs. Adrenalin-
incited, I then oscillate between manic

ambition and dispirited lethargy. Every
so often, ambition gets what it wanted
with regard to a ball and some netting.

Sweat-ecstasy. For a moment held
in the raucous hive-mined of the Folk.
Even as I begin to celebrate, I feel

the thrill begin to fade. I see the howling
crowd drunk in the rain, and I turn 51
and lie on a couch snoring while TV

broadcasts a soporific match.



hans ostrom 2017