Written by Rick Kempa
This is that time of year when
hard drives turn malevolent,
loved ones drop dead,
diseases rampage through the dorms,
and essays come due.
“No excuses,” I intone,
but excuses come anyway:
jagged writing on my door,
voices cracking on the phone,
angst in the halls.
Amidst this barrage, Dan arrives,
the kid who, with his quick mind
and bright, attentive eyes,
was one of my favorites,
until he disappeared.
He glides into my office,
sits facing me, says, “I blew it.
I had plenty of ideas, but
I couldn’t get out of bed.
I never wrote them down.”
“So why are you here?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just wanted you
to know what happened.
That’s all.” And he is able
to meet me with those eyes.
How modest truth is, how quiet,
in the company of lies.
But oh what power it wields!
I want to draw him to my breast,
kiss his forehead, cry.
Instead, I clasp his hand and say,
“Thank you for coming by.”
He who has earned my F, this one
whom alone I would call friend,
thanks me too.
First Published in Too Vast for Sleep (Littoral Press, 2020)
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Rick Kempa is a poet and essayist living in Grand Junction, Colorado.