The non-credit, summer school

class in typing between his junior

and senior years ended with

twenty-one words and seven

errors for a generous “D” from

the teacher who liked him and

which, thankfully, didn’t count

on his high school grade point

average, which suffered enough

in his senior year, not to mention

his SATs, after his father’s violent

suicide, he thought to himself as

he typed the poem flawlessly

fifty-two years later.